THE 



CLASSIC READER; 



A COLLECTION OP EXTRACTS FOR 



READING AND RECITATION ; 



OOWLES'S DEBATE ON THE CHARACTER OF 
JULIUS C^SAR. 



BY 

THE REV. W. HAMILTON, D.D., 

FORMERLY HEAD MASTER I]\ T THE ROYAL BELFAST ACADEMICAL 
INSTITUTION. 



Pfltttmt : 

PUBLISHED BY JOHN LOVELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET. 

1865. 



t^ 



^ 



\ 



*>* 






Entered, according to Act of the Provincial Parliament, in the 
year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, by the 
Rev. W. Hamilton, D.D., in the Office of the Registrar of 
the Province of Canada. 



ST? 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



The design of this volume is to furnish a Manual for 
Rhetorical Delivery. Most of the pieces in the book are 
suitable for declamation. This is indicated, in the first 
section, by the term Lyrical ; for Poetry, Rhetoric, and 
Music are closely related to each other. 

The insertion of Knowles's celebrated Debate on the 
character of Julius Csesar must greatly add to the value of 
this Selection. No finer set of exercises for declamation can 
be found in the English language than the speeches of this 
Debate. 

The plan of this volume does not include any extended 
remarks on the Art of Reading. The Compiler would, 
therefore, only add a few practical hints which may be 
found useful in teaching. 

Vowels may be considered as pure sound. Consonants 
are modifications of sound, being used for opening or clos- 
ing the vocal organs. To give sweetness and musical soft- 
ness to Reading, it is necessary that the vowels should be 
lengthened. To secure distinctness, we must strike the 
consonants sharply and clearly. A feeble utterance may be 
greatly improved by attention to a firm setting of the lips, 
and a laying hold 1 of our words with the tongue and palate. 
Drawling is an excessive and injudicious prevalence of 
long vowel sounds ; and it may be corrected by attention 
to the consonants. The softer passions, such as sorrow, 



IV PREFATORY NOTE. 

express themselves in lengthened sounds. Anger strikes 
hard on the consonants. 

Collins's ei Ode to the Passions" and "Alexander's 
Feast," by Dryden, afford admirable illustrations of the 
varying character of the voice, as modified by feeling. 
Moore's lines, entitled " The Bower of Bendemeer," and 
" Brace's Address to his Army," furnish remarkable con- 
trasts in this respect. 

When about to read any sentence, we should consider 
how many ideas it contains, and how they are related to 
each other ; and we should group the words accordingly. 

Rhetorical words, such as " The days of my childhood" 
" The vicissitudes of hope" should be read as if each con- 
sisted of only one ordinary word, such as Immutability, 
Anti-trinitarian. Long words may have primary, secon- 
dary, and even tertiary accents. 

The first object of all reading is distinctness, that we 
may be heard and understood. Rhetorical reading aims at 
the expression of feeling and passion. W. H. 

Montreal, Jan. 1, 1866. 



CONTENTS. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 

PAGE 

The Homes of England Mrs. Hemans. 9 

The Palm Tree in an English Garden Ibid. 10 

The Mariners of England . Campbell. 11 

The Mariner's Dream JDimond. 12 

Eliza Darwin. 13 

The Soldier's Dream Campbell. 14 

The Sailor's Orphan Boy. Mrs. Opie. 15 

The Exile of Erin ' Campbell. 16 

The Bower of Bendemeer Moore. 17 

The Soldiers Grave Mrs. Maclean (L.E.L.) 17 

An Epicedium Marie A. Watts. 18 

The Battle Field 19 

The Last Man Campbell. 20 

Lord Ullin's Daughter .Ibid. 22 

To the Rainbow , Ibid. 23 

Historical Recollections W. H. 24 

The Destruction of Sennacherib's Host at Jerusalem . . Byron. 24 

Saul's Address to his Army Ibid. 25 

The Field of Waterloo Barton. 25 

Bonaparte at St. Helena 26 

The Soldier's Funeral ...Mrs. Maclean (L.E.L.) 26 

The Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 27 

The Crusader 28 

The Jubilee W. H. 29 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Ginevra Rogers. 29 

Outalissi Campbell. 31 

utalissi's Death-Song Ibid. 34 

Bruce to his Army.. Burns. 35 

Bernardo del Carpio Mrs. Hemans. 36 

The Battle of Blenheim Southey. 38 

The Battle of Hohenlinden Campbell. 39 

The Field of Waterloo Byron. 40 

Burial of Sir J. Moore Wolfe. 42 

England's Oak '. , 43 

The Voice of Spring « Mrs. Hemans. 44 

The Ruined Cottage , Mrs. Maclean (L.E.L.) 45 

Water ■ Eliza Cook. 47 

The Morning Dream Cowper. 48 

Our Father's at the Helm Miss M. S. Boyle. 49 

On the Downfall of Poland Campbell. 50 

The Branded Hand John G. Whittier. 51 

The Vaudois Teacher Ibid. 53 

Mary, the Maid of the Inn Southey. 54 

Verses Written in the Churchyard of Richmond. .H. Knowles. 56 

A Beth Gelert Spencer. 58 

The Escaped Convict 60 

The Poet's Lot 61 

The Arab's Address to his Horse 62 

Lochinvar Scott. 63 

Casabianca, the Faithful Son. Mrs. Hemans. 64 

Greek Funeral Chant 65 

Flight of O'Connor's Child - Campbell. 66 

The Sister's Curse Ibid. 68 

Ode to Winter Ibid. 69 

Ode to Eloquence Carey. 70 

Alexander's Feast Dryden. 72 

The Passions Collins. 75 

Childe Harold's Song Byron. 77 

The Mariner's Song Mian Cunningham. 79 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Scott. 80 

Lochiei's Warning Campbell. 80 

Buttercups and Daisies Eliza Cook. 82 



CONTENTS. Vll 

DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

PAGE 

Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death . Shakspeare. 83 

Cardinal Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell Ibid. 84 

Henry V. to his Soldiers » Ibid. 84 

Henry V.'s Speech before the Battle of Agincourt Ibi<L 85 

Marcellus's Speech to the Mob Ibid. 86 

Speech of Cassius to Brutus Ibid. 86 

Brutus on the Death of Caesar Ibid. 88 

Mark Antony's Oration .Ibid. 89 

Brutus and Cassius .... Ibid. 9 1 

Othello's Apology Ibid. 94 

Richmoud Encouraging his Soldiers Ibid. 95 

Shy lock Justifying his Meditated Revenge Ibid. 96 

Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice Ibid. 96 

Tell J. S.Knowles. 106 

Douglas's Account of Himself. ; . Home. 106 

Glenalvon and Norval Ibid. 107 

COMIC PIECES. 

The Chameleon Merrick. 110 

The Well of St. Keyne Southey. Ill 

Lodgings for Single Gentlemen Colman. 113 

The Three Black Crows Dr. Byrom. 114 

The Newcastle Apothecary Colman. 1 1 5 

The Razor-Seller Peter Pindar. 117 

Modern Logic, A Christmas Story 118 

A Visit from St. Nicholas ! C. C. Moore. 119 

The Spider and the Fly s ..Mrs. Howitt. 121 

The Motley Fool Shakspeare. 122 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Sympathy with Nature Wordsworth. 123 

Association. , W. H. 123 

The Present Aspect of Greece Byron. 1 24 

On the Plain of Marathon Ibid, 125 

On the Beauty of the Rose W. H. 126 

The Three Sons J". Moultrie. 128 

Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. ..H. Smith. 129 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

On National Music W. H. 131 

Thunder Storm among the Alps Byron. 132 

The Elder's Death-bed Wilson. 133 

The Ocean . Byron. 137 

Harley's Death , Mackenzie. 138 

Liberty and Slavery Sterne. 140 

On the Pleasure of Painting Hazlitt. 141 

The Idiot. \ Blackwood's Magazine 143 

Arnold Winkelried James Montgomery 144 

The Statue of the Dying Gladiator Byron. 146 

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 

Hamlet's Advice to the Players Shakspeare. 14*7 

Hamlet on the Skill of the Play Actor Ibid. 147 

The Good Preacher and the Clerical Coxcomb. . . . Cowper. 148 

An Exhortation to the Study of Eloquence Cicero. 149 

A School-Boy's first Impressions of Demosthenes 150 

Demosthenes Before the Theban Council, Haranguing 

Against Philip Westminster Review. 152 

The Blind Preacher Wirt. 153 

Panegyric on the Eloquence of Sheridan Burke. 156 

SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

Speech of Judah Before Joseph 157 

Nathan's Address to David . 158 

Extracts from the Speech of Demosthenes to the Athenians, 

Against Philip /. 158 

A Fine Personification Bishop Sherlock. 162 

On the threatened Invasion of England in 1803.... ft. Hall. 163 

Spirit of British Freedom Curran. 165 

Christ's Agony Logan. 166 

The Plurality of Worlds not an Argument Against the 

Truth of Revelation Chalmers, 167 

The Restlessness of Human Ambition .Ibid. 169 

Infatuation of Mankind with Regard to the Things of Time 1 70 

The Wedding Garment James Hamilton. 1 72 

The Plant of Renown Ibid. 174 

Debate on the Character of Julius Caesar X S. Knowles. 177 



LTEICAL PIECES, 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

The stately homes of England! — how beautiful they stand, 

Amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land! 

The deer, across the greensward, bound, through shade and sunny 
gleam, 

And the swan glides past them, with the sound of some rejoic- 
ing stream. 

The merry homes of England! — around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light, 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is 

told; 
Or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old. 

The cottage homes of England ! — By thousands, on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brook, and round the hamlet 

fanes, 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook 

of leaves ; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their 

eaves. 

The free fair homes of England ! — long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts, of native proof, be reared, to guard each hallowed 

wail ! 

And -green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its God. 

Mrs. Hemans. 
B 



10 LYRICAL PIECES. 



THE PALM TREE IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN. 

It waved not through an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fanned by southern breeze, 
In some green isle of Indian seas ; 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew, 
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold, 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould : 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange looked it there ! — the willow streamed 

Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 

The lime-bough lured the honey-bee, 

To murmur by the desert tree ; 

And showers of snowy roses made 

A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers ; 
Lamps, that, from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colors flung : 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show, 
Under the blossoms, to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, 'mid the throng, 
Seemed reckless all of dance or song; 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been; 
Of crested brow and long black hair, 
A stranger — like the palm-tree, there. 

And slowly, sadlj-, waved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms ; 
He passed the pale green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when, to that sole palm, he came, 
There shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him, its rustling spoke, 
The silence of his soul it broke ! 
It whispered of his own bright isle, 
That lit the ocean with a smile ; 
Aye, to his ear, that native tone 
Had something of the sea- waves' moan ! 



LYRICAL PIECES. 11 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar, 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; 
All, through his wakening bosom, swept, 
He clasped his country's tree — and wept! 

Oh scorn him not! — the strength, whereby 
The patriot girds himself to die ; 
The unconquerable soul, which fills 
The freeman battling on his hills ; — 
These have one fountain, deep and clear, 
The same, whence gushed that childlike tear. 

Mrs. Eemans. 



THE MARINERS OF EXGLAXD. 

Ye mariners of England ! that guard our native seas! 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, the battle and the 

breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again, to match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep, while the stormy tempests blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy tempests 

blow ! 

The spirits of your fathers, shall start from every wave ! — 
For the deck — it was their field of fame, and Ocean was their 

grave ; 
Where Blake and mighty Xelson fell, your manly hearts shall 

glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy tempests blow! 
While the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy tempests 

blow ! 

Britannia needs no bulwark, no towers along the steep ; 
Her march is o'er the mountain waves : her home is on the deep ! 
With thunders from her native oak, she quells the floods below — 
As they roar on the shore, when the stormy tempests blow ; 
When the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy tempests 
blow ! 

The meteor-flag of England shall yet terrific burn ; 
Till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow ; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased 
to blow. Campbell. 



12 LYRICAL PIECES. 

THE MARINER'S DREAM. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, 

His hammock swung loose, at the sport of the wind ; 

But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
And of pleasures, that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, 
And restored every rose, but concealed every thorn. 

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
iVnd bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise, — ■ 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, 

And the swallow chirps sweet, from her nest in the- wall; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 

His cheek is bedewed with smother's warm tear ; 
And the lips of the boy, in a love-kiss, unite 

With the lips of the maid, whom his bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, 
Joy quickens his pulse, all his hardships seem o'er; 

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 
"I am blessed, I am blessed ; I can ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame, which now glares on his eye ? 

Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear ? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting death on the sky ! 

7 Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere 1 

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck, — 
Amazement confronts him with images dire — 

Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck— 
The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire. 

Like mountains, the billows tremendously swell — 
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave ! 

Oh ! Sailor boy, wo to thy dream of delight! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss — 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? 



LYRICAL PIECES. 13 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge — 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
And storms, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge ! 

Days, month?, years, and ages shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 

But ne'er from this heart shall thine image decay, 

While feeling and memory reign in my soul. Dimond. 



ELIZA. 



Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height, 

O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight ; 

Sought, with bold eye, amid the bloody strife, 

Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; 

From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, 

And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 

Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, 

Fast by the hand, one lisping boy she led ; 

And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm, 

Slept on her kerchief, cradled on her arm : 

While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, 

And love's warm eddies circle round her heart. 

Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed, 

Saw, through the driving smoke, his dancing crest, 

Heard the exulting shout, " they run ! — they run !" 

il He's safe !" she cried, " he's safe ! — the battle's won P] 

A ball now hisses through the airy tides, 

(Some Fury wings it, and some Demon guides,) 

Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck, 

Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; 

The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, 

Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains — 

11 Ah me !" she cried, and sinking on the ground, 

Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound; 

u Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn ! 

Wait, gushing life — oh, wait my love's return !" 

Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, 

The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ; — 

" Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ! 

On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your ra°:e !" 

Then, with weak arms, her weeping babes caressed, 

And. sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. 

From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, 
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes ; 



14 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Eliza's name along the camp he calls, 

u Eliza" echoes through the canvassed walls ; 

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread, 

O'er groaning heap.?, the dying and the dead, 

Vault o'er the plain — and in the tangled wood — 

Lo — dead Eliza — weltering in her blood ! I 

Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds ; 
With open arms and sparkling eyes, he bounds : 
11 Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand — 
"Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand ; 
Alas ! we both with coldvand hunger quake— 
"Why do you weep? — mamma will soon awake." 
" She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cried, 
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and sighed ; 
Stretched on the ground awhile entranced he lay, 
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ; 
He then upsprang, with wild convulsive start, 
And all the father kindled in his heart ; 
11 Heaven!" he cried, " my first rash vow forgive! 
These bind to earth — for these I pray to live V 
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, 
And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. Darwin. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die ; — 

When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart— 



LYRICAL PIECES. 15 

"Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn I" 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay : — 

Bat sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away! 

Campbell. 



THE SAILOR'S ORPHAX BOY. 

Stay, lady — stay, for mercy's sake, 

And hear a helpless orphan's tale : 
Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake — 

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale ! 
Yet I was once a mothers pride, 

And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died — 

And I am now an orphan boy ! 

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I 

When news of Nelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

To see the lighted windows flame! 
To force me home my mother sought — 

She could not bear to see my joy ! 
For, with my father's life 'twas bought — 

It made me a poor orphan boy ! 

The people's shouts were long and loud ; 

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; 
" Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd — 

My mother answered with her tears ! 
" Oh ! why do tears steal down your cheek," 

Cried I, " while others shout for joy ?" 
She kissed me, and, in accents weak, 

She called me her "poor orphan boy!" 

11 What is an orphan boy ?" I said ; 

When, suddenly, she gasped for breath, 
And her eyes closed : I shrieked for aid : 

But ah ! her eyes were closed in death! 
My hardships since — I will not tell : 

But now, no more a parent's joy, 
Ah ! lady, I have learned too well 

What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! 

Oh ! were I by your bounty fed! — 
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; 

Trust me, I mean to earn my bread — 
The sailor's orphan boy has pride ! 



16 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Lady, you weep : — what is't you say ? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ ! 
Look down, dear parents ! look and see 

Your happy, happy orphan boy! Mrs. Opie. 



THE EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 

For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ; 

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 

Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh ! 

" Sad is my fate!" — said the heart-broken stranger — 
" The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee ; 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger : 
A home and a country remain not to me ! 

Never again, in the green, sunny bowers, 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours ; 

Or cover my harp with the wild- woven flowers, 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! 

11 Erin ! my country ! though sad and forsaken, 

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ! 
But, alas ! in a far — foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more ! 
Oh ! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! — 

They died to defend me ! — or live to deplore ! 

" Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? 

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? 
Ah ! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure ! 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure ; 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall ! 

"Yet — all its fond recollections suppressing— 

One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw : 
Erin! — an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 

Land of my forefathers ! — Erin go bragh ! 
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, 

Erin mavourneen ! Erin go bragh ! " Campbell. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 17 



THE BOWER OF BENDEMEER. 

The following lines, from Moore's Lalla RooTch, are supposed to be sung 
in a Harem by a female slave. 

There's a bower of roses, by Bendemeer's stream, 

And the nightingale sings round it, all the day long; 

In the time of my childhood, 'twas like a sweet dream, 
To sit in the roses, and hear the bird's song. 

That bower, and its roses, I never forget ; 

But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year, 
I think — is the nightingale singing there yet? 

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? 

No, no ! the roses soon withered, that hung o'er the wave, 
But some blossoms w r ere gathered, while freshly they shone, 

And a dew was distilled from the flowers, that gave 
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. 

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 

An essence, that breathes of it many a year ; 
Thus, bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 

Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. 



THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 

There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, 

Beneath is a soldier lying — 
The death-wound came, amid sword and plume, 

When banner and ball were flying. 

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, 

By wet wild flowers surrounded ; 
The church shadow falls o'er the place of his rest, 

Where the steps of his childhood bounded. 

There were tears, that fell from manly eyes, 
There was woman's gentle weeping, 

And the wailing of age and infant cries, 
O'er the grave, where he lies sleeping. 

He had left his home in his spirit's pride, 
With his father's sword and blessing ; 

He stood with the valiant, side by side, 
His country's wrongs redressing. 

He came again, in the light of his fame, 

When the red campaign was over ; 
One heart, that, in secret, had kept his name, 

Was claimed by the soldier lover. 



18 LYRICAL PIECES. 

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky ; — 

He left his sweet home for battle ; 
Left his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry, 

And the cannon's long death-rattle. 

He came again — but an altered man : 

The path of the grave was before him, 
And the smile, that he wore, was cold and wan, 

For the shadow of death hung o'er him. 

He spoke of victory — spoke of cheer : — 
These are words, that are vainly spoken 

To the childless mother, or orphan's ear, 
Or the widow, whose heart is broken. 

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, 

Half hidden by } r ouder willow ; 
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won, 

But he died on his own home pillow. 

Mrs. Maclean, (L. E. L.) 



AN EPICEDIUxM. 

He left his home with a bounding heart, 

For the world was all before him; 
And he felt it scarce a pain to part, 

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him. 
He turned him to visions of future years, 

The rainbow's hues were around them; 
And a father's bodings — a mother s tears — 

Might not weigh with the hopes, that crowned them. 

That mother's cheek is far paler now 

Then when she last caressed him; 
There's an added gloom, on that father's brow, 

Since the hour, when last he blessed him. 
Oh ! that all human hopes should prove 

Like the flowers, that will fade to-morrow ; 
And the cankering fears of anxious love 

Ever end in truth and sorrow. 

He left his home with a swelling sail, 

Of fame and fortune dreaming — 
With a spirit, as free as the vernal gale, 

Or the pennon above him streaming. 
He hath reached his goal ;— by a distant wave, 

'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him; 
And stranger forms bent o'er his grave, 

When the last sad rites were paid him. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 19 

He should have died in his own loved land, 

With friends and kinsmen near him; 
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand, 

With no thought, save of heaven, to cheer him. 
But what recks it now? — Is his sleep less sound, 

In the port where the wild winds swept him, 
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound, 

Or the hearts he loved had wept him? 

Then why repine ? — Can he feel the rays 

That pestilent sun sheds o'er him ; 
Or share the grief, that may cloud the days 

Of the friends, who now deplore him? 
No ; his bark's at anchor — its sails are furled, — 

It hath 'scaped the storms' deep chiding; 
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world, 

In a haven of peace is riding. Alaric A. Watts. 



THE BATTLE FIELD. 

I looked on the field, where the battle was spread, 
Where thousands stood forth in their glancing array; 

And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed, 

Through the dun rolling clouds that o'ershadowed the fray, 

I saw the dark forest of lances appear, 

As the ears of the harvest, unnumbered they stood: 

I heard the stern shout, as the foeman drew near, 

Like the storm, that lays low the proud pines of the wood. 

Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were rolled, 
Uprousing the wolf, from the depth of his lair : 

On high, to the wind, streamed the banner's red fold, 
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair. 

I looked on the field of contention again, 

When the sabre was sheathed, and the tempest had passed; 
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, 

And the fern softly sighed in the low wailing blast. 

Unmoved lay the lake, in its hour of repose, 

And bright shone the stars, through the sky's deepened blue ; 
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, 

Where the fox-glove lay gemmed with its pearl-drops of dew. 

But where swept the ranks of that dark-frowning host, 
As the ocean in might — as the storm cloud in speed? 

Y\ T here now were the thunders Of victory's boast — 

The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed ? 



20 LYRICAL PIECES. 



THE LAST MAN. 

This piece is given as a'noble specimen of lyrical poetry; but the Com- 
piler cannot let it pass without censuring the unscriptural nature of 
the view which it contains of the world's termination. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep 
• That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
Adown the gulf of time ! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
^Uut shall creation's death behold, 
As Adam saw her prime ! 

The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands; 
In plague and famine, some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound or tread ; 
And ships w r ere drifting with the dead 
To shores where all was dumb I 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words, and high, 
That shook the sere-leaves from the wood, 

As if a storm passed by, 
Saying — We are twins in death, proud sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou, ten thousand, thousand years, 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
That shall no longer flow. 

What, though beneath thee, man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill, 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 

The vassals of his w r ill ; — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day ; 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang, 
Entailed on human hearts. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 21 

Go — let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor, with thy rising beams, recall 

Life's tragedy again ; 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain, anew to writhe ; 
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 
Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Even I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Witness of countless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips, that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall— 
The majesty of darkness shall 
Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again and shine 
In bliss, unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robbed the grave of victory — 
And took the sting from death ! 

Go, sun, while mercy holds me up 

On nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief, that man shall taste — 
Go tell the night, that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! Campbell. 



22 LYRICAL PIECES, 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, u Boatman, do not tarry, 

And I'll give thee a silver pound, 
To row us o'er the ferry ! " 

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 

This dark and stormy water?" 
" Oh! I'm the cfcief of TTlva's isle, 
■ And this, Lord Ullin's daughter: 

" And fast before her father's men, 
Three days we've fled together ; 

For, should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather ; — 

"His horsemen, hard behind us, ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who should cheer my bonny bride, 

When they have slain her lover ?" 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : — 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady! 

" And by my word, the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So— though the waves are raging white — 

I'll row you o'er the ferry I" 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking, 

And, in the scowl of heaven, each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men! — 
Their trampling sounded nearer ! 

" Oh ! haste thee, haste !" the lady cries ; 

" Though tempests round us gather, 
I'll meet the raging of the skies, 

But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, 
When — oh ! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gather'd o'er her — 



LYRICAL PIECES. 23 

And still they row'd, amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 

His wrath was changed to wailing — 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover! 
One lovely arm wasstretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

11 Come back ! come back!" he cried in grief, 

"Across this stormy water ; 
AndTU forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter ! — oh! my daughter!" — 

'Twas vain! — the loud waves lash'd the shore, 

Return or aid preventing : — 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. Campbell. 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triumphal arch, that fill's t the sky, when storms prepare to part, 
I ask not proud philosophy to teach me what thou art. 
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, a midway station given, 
For happy spirits to alight betwixt the earth and heaven. 
Can all that optics teach, unfold thy form to please me so, 
As when I dreamed of gems and gold, hid in thy radiant bow ? 
When science from creation's face, enchantment's veil withdraws, 
What lovely visions yield their place to cold material laws. 
And vet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, but words of the Most 

High, 
Have told why first tlrv robe of beams was woven in the sky. 
When, o'er the green undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou 

didst shine, 
How came the world's grey fathers forth, to watch thy sacred 

sign. 
And, when the yellow lustre smiled o'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child, to bless the bow of God. 
Alethinks thy jubilee to keep, the first-made anthem rang 
On earth delivered from the deep, and the first poet sang. 
Nor ever shall the muse's eye, unraptured meet thy beam ; 
Theme of primeval prophecy, be still the poet's theme. 
The earth to thee its incense yields, the lark thy welcome sings ; 
When, glittering in the freshened fields, the snowy mushroom 

springs. 



24 LYRICAL PIECES. 

How glorious is thy girdle, cast o'er mountain, tower, and town, 
Or mirrored in the ocean vast, a thousand fathoms down. 
As fresh in yon horizon dark, as young thy beauties seem. 
As when the eagle from the ark, first sported in thy beam. 
For, faithful to its sacred page, heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
Nor lets the type grow pale with age, that first spoke peace to 
man. Campbell. 



HISTORICAL RECOLLECTIONS. 

'Tis a glorious thing to visit lands where empire lived of yore, 
To tread upon the Assyrian plain, the Greek and Latin shore, 
To ponder o'er the mighty tombs of generations gone, 
And dream, amid the ruins vast, of Rome and Babylon. 

We sigh that widowed Carthage now lies levelled with the wave ; 
That Tadmor and Persepolis are silent as the grave ; 
But wizard fancy bids the crowds, that filled those ancient walls, 
Once more arise in living pride, to throng their streets and halls. 

She waves her wand — the pillar lifts aloft the sculptured dome, 
And the temple, all restored and grand, appears of gods the 

home ; 
Her magic makes it pleasant still to visit foreign climes, 
And see the sad memorials that speak of other times. 

W. H. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S HOST AT 
JERUSALEM. 

"The Lord sent an angel, which cut off all the mighty men of valour, and 
the leaders and captains in the camp of the king of Assyria: so he re- 
turned with shame of face to his own land." — 2 Chronicles xxxii. 21. 

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest, when summer is green, 
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest, when autumn hath blown, 
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strown. 

For, the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed on the face of the foe, as he passed : 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still ! 



LYRICAL PIECES. 25 

And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold, as the spray, of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 

The tents were all silent, the banners alone, 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 

And the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! Byron. 

[It is strange that in the last Terse of this beautiful piece, there are two 
grammatical inaccuracies, or, at least, solecisms.] 



SAUL'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the hosts of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path ; 
Bury your steel in the bosom of Gath. 

Thou, that art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me, that moment, in blood at thy feet — 
Mine be the doom, which they dare not to meet. 

Farewell to others ! but never we part ! 

Heir of my royalty ! son of my heart ! 

Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 

Or kingly the death that awaits us to-day. Byron. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 

Pour your tears wild and free — balm best and holiest ! 
Fallen is the lofty tree, low as the lowliest ; 
Rent is the eagle's plume, towering victorious, 
Read, on the hero's tomb, the end of the glorious. 

Lean on that shivered spear — it threatens no longer, 
Snapt like its high compeer, the willow is stronger ; 
See, on the dinted brand, the bright day beam flashes, 
If thine be the soul, to stand and number its gashes. 

C 



26 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Press not that hallowed mould, in darkness enshrouded, 
Ashes, but scarcely cold, beneath it are crowded ; 
Thy feet, o'er some noble heart, may stumble unheeding — 
O'er thy familiar friend, perchance may be treading. 

ye were scattered fast, sons of the morning ! 
Triumphs, but seen and past, your proud brows adorning, 
After such mortal toil to slumber so soundly, 
Can aught, to the heart of man, speak so profoundly? 

Barton. 



BONAPARTE AT ST. HELENA. 

Far from the battle shock, fate has fast bound thee, 
Chained to the rugged rock, waves dash around thee, 
Instead of the trumpet's sound, seabirds are shrieking ; 
Hoarse, on the ramparts bound, 'billows are breaking. 
For ensigns unfurling, like sunbeams', in brightness 
Are ocean waves curling, like snow wreaths in whiteness, 
No sycophants mock thee with dreams of dominion, 
But loud tempests rock thee and ruffle thy pinion. 



THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 

The muffled drum rolled on the air, 
Warriors, with stately step, were there; 
On every arm was the black crape bound, 
Every carbine was turned to the ground ; 
Solemn, the sound of their measured tread, 
As silent and slow, they followed the dead. 

The riderless horse was led in the rear ; 
There were white plumes waving over the bier j 
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall, 
For, it was a soldier's funeral. 

That soldier had stood on the battle plain, 
Where every step was over the slain ; 
But the brand and the ball had passed him by, 
And he came to his native land, to die. 

'Twas bard to come to that native land, 
And not clasp one familiar hand ; 
'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead, 
Before he could hear his welcome said. 

But, 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, 
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore ; 
To think, that the friends of his youth might weep, 
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 27 

The bugles ceased their wailing sound, 
As the coffin was lowered into the ground ; 
A volley was fired, a blessing said, 
One moment's pause, and they left the dead. 

I saw a poor and aged man — 

His step was feeble, his cheek was wan; 

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, 

His face was bowed on the cold damp ground ; 

He raised his head, his tears were done — 

The father had prayed o'er his only son. 

Miss Land on (Mrs. Maclean), 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, 
All in the valley of death rode the six hundred, — 
"Forward the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns!" he said ; 
Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. 

Forward the Light Brigade ! No man was then dismayed, 
Not, though the soldiers knew, some one had blundered, 
Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die. 
Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well 
Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, flashed all at once in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, charging an army, 

While all the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke, right through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian reeled from the sabre stroke, 

Shattered and sundered ; 
Then they rode back, but not — not the six hundred ! 

Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them, volleyed and thundered ; 

Stormed at with shot and shell, those that had fought so well, 

Came from the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell, 

All that was left of them, left of six hundred ! 

When can their glory fade ? the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade ! 

Noble six hundred ! Tennyson. 



28 LYRICAL PIECES. 



THE CRUSADER. 

He is come from the land of the sword and shrine, 

From the sainted battles of Palestine ; 

The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest, 

Like a glory, the red cross hangs at his breast ; 

His courser is black, as black can be, 

Save the brow star, white as the foam of the sea, 

And he wears a scarf of broidery rare, 

The last love gift of his lady fair; 

It bore for device a cross and a dove, 

And the words — " I am vowed to my God and my love." 

He comes not back the same that he went ; 
For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been spent, 
His golden hair has a deeper brown, 
And his brow has caught a darker frown ; 
And his lip has lost its youthful red, 
And the shade of the South o'er his cheek is spread, 
But stately his step, and his bearing high, 
And wild the light of his fiery eye ; 
And proud in the lists were the maiden bright, 
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her knight. 

He rides for the home he had pined to see, 
In the court, in the camp, in captivity ! 
He reached the castle — his own step was all 
That echoed within the deserted hall ; 
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower ; 
And, for banner, there waved one pale wallflower, 
And, for sound of the trumpet and peal of the horn, 
Came the scream of the owl, on the night wind borne. 
The turrets were falling, the vassals were flown, 
And the bat ruled the halls, he had called his own ; 
His heart throbbed high — Oh ! never again 
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain ; 
He never might think of his boyish years, 
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears, 
Which hope and memory shed when they meet — 
The grave of his kindred was at his feet — 
He stood alone, the last of his race, 
With the cold wide world for his dwelling place ; 
The home of his fathers gone to decay, 
All but their memory had passed away — 
No one to welcome, no one to share 
The laurel, he no more was proud to wear. 
He came, in the pride of his war-success, 
But to weep over very desolateness. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 29 

They pointed him to a barren plain, 
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain; 
They shewed him the lowly grave, where slept 
The maiden, whose scarf he so truly had kept ; 
But they could not shew him one living thing, 
To which his withered heart could cling — 

Amid the warriors of Palestine 
Is one, the first in the battle line. 
It is not for glory he seeks the field, 
For a blasted tree is upon his shield, 
And the motto it bears is, "I fight for a grave." 
He found it — That warrior has died with the brave. 



THE JUBILEE. 

" In the day of atonement shall ye make the trumpet sound throughout 
all your land. And ye shall hallow the fiftieth year, and proclaim 
liberty throughout all the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof; it 
shall be a jubilee unto you."— Leviticus xxv. 9, 10. 

The trumpet note hath sounded, the chosen ones are free, 
The horror of the dungeon hath heard the jubilee ; 
The sun of truth has risen on continent and isle, 
Tahiti and Oaffraria have caught the living smile. 

The men who sat in darkness have raised a glad acclaim, 
To hail the dawning glory, and shout the Saviour's name. 
Extensive as the day beams his empire soon shall be; 
For all the earth shall hail him, and keep the jubilee. 

But tremble, ye rebellious, his banners are displayed, 

And Jesus comes in brightness, with majesty arrayed, 

His garments red with slaughter, his eyes a flame of fire, 

To tread his foes in anger, and trample them in ire. W. H. 



GINEYRA. 

If ever you should come to Modena, 
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
Its noble gardens,, terrace above terrace, 
And rich in fountains, .statues, cypresses, 
Will long detain you, — but before you go, 
Enter the house — forget it not, I pray you- 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth 
The last of that illustrious family 



30 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Done by Zampieri — bat by whom I care not. 

He who observes it — ere he passes on, 

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 

That he may call it up, when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 

Her lips half open, and her finger up, 

As though she said " Beware" ; her vest of gold 

Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 

An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 

A coronet of pearls. 

But then her face, 
So lovely, yet so arch, so fall of mirth, 
The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody. 

Alone it hangs, 
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion — 
An oaken chest half-eaten by the worms, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With scripture stories from the Life of Christ — 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
That by the way — it may be true or false — ■ 
But don't forget the picture ; and you will not, 
When you have heard the tale they told me there. 

She was an only child — her name Ginevra — 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
And in the lustre of her youth she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy; but, at the nuptial feast, 
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting, 
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
u 'Tis but to make a trial of her love !" 
And filled his glass to all, but his hand shook, 
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 31 

'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
Laughing, and looking back, and flying still, 
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger : 
But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, 
But that she was not! — 

Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking, 
Flung it awa}^ in battle with the Turk ! 
Orsini lived ; and long might you have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something — 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 
When, on an idle day, a day of search 
Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
11 Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" 
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished — save a wedding ring, 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
Engraven with a name, the name of both — 
" Ginevra." 

There she had found a grave ! 
Within that chest she had concealed herself, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
When a spring--lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down for ever ! Kogers. 



OUTALISSI. 

In 1778 Wyoming, a village in Pennsylvania, was laid desolate by an in- 
cursion of the Indians, so that a place, which had been celebrated 
for its beauty and for the hospitable and simple manners of its in- 
habitants became a frightful waste. 

In Campbell's delightful poem on this subject we are introduced 
to a venerable American settler, named Albert, who was the chief 
person of Wyoming, and was the father of a beautiful girl, an only 
child, Gertrude. When Gertrude was nine years old, her father and 
she one day beheld an Indian approach them, leading by the hand a 
boy, who seemed of English descent. The warrior, Outalissi, said 
that the boy's father had been slain in an attack by a hostile tribe of 
Indians, and that he himself had come to entrust the orphan to 



32 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Albert's care. From Outalissi's narrative, Albert discovered that 
young Henry was the son of an old friend; he received him, there- 
fore, gladly, and took care of him, until he was taken by his relatives* 
to England for his education. In the mean time, Henry and Ger- 
trude, as playmates, had become fondly attached to each other. The 
following extract represents a scene that occurred soon after Henry's 
return to America. 

Night came, and, in their lighted bower, full late 
The joy of converse had endured— when, hark! 
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; 
And, heedless of the dog's obstreperous bark, 
A form has rushed amidst them from the dark, 
And spread his arms, — and fallen upon the floor : 
Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark ; 
But desolate he looked, and famished poor, 
As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. 

Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched : 
A spirit from the dead they deem him first ! 
To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and parched, 
From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, 
Emotions unintelligible burst ; 
And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; 
At length, the pity- proffered cup his thirst 
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, 
When Albert's hand he grasped — but Albert knew not him. 

" And hast thou then forgot?" — he cried forlorn, 
And eyed the group with half indignant air, — 
11 Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn 
When I with thee the cup of peace did share? 
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, 
That now is white as Appalachian snow ; 
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, 
And age bath bowed me, and the torturing foe, 
Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer know 1 

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, 
Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew : 
" Bless thee, my guide !" — but, backward, as he came, 
The chief his old bewildered head withdrew, 
And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through. 
'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile control — 
The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : 
At last, delight o'er all his features stole, 
" It is — my own I" he cried, and clasped him to his soul. 

11 Yes ! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then 
The bow-string of my spirit was not slack, 
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men, 
I bore thee, like the quiver, on my back, 



LYRICAL PIECES. 33 

Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; 
Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared, 
For I was strong as mountain-cataract! — 
And dost thou not remember how we cheered 
Upon the last hill top, when white men's huts appeared ? 

r f< Then welcome be my death-song, and my death ! 
Since I have seen thee, and again embraced." 
And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath ; 
But, with affectionate and eager haste, 
Was every arm outstretched around their guest, 
To welcome, and to bless his aged head. 
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; 
And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed 
On wounds, with fevered joy that more profusely bled. 

11 But this is not a time,"— he started up, 
And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand — 
11 This is no time to fill the joyous cup ! 
The Mammoth comes ! — the foe ! — the monster Brandt I 
With all his howling, desolating band ! — 
These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine 
Awake, at once, and silence half your land I 
Red is the cup they drink ; — but not with wine ! 
Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning 3hinel 

11 Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 
'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth : 
Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribe 
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : 
No ! — not the dog, that watched my household hearth, 
Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! 
All perished! — I alone am left on earth, 
To whom nor relative nor blood remains — 
No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins. 

11 But go and rouse your warriors ! for (if right 
These old bewildered eyes could guess by signs 
Of striped and starred banners) on yon height 
Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines, 
Some fort, embattled by your country, shines : 
Deep roars the innavigable gulf, below 
Its squared rock and palisaded lines — 
Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; 
Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!" 

CjUIPBKLL. 



34 LYRICAL PIECES. 



OUTALISSI'S DEATH-SONG. 

" And I could weep ;" — the Oneyda chief 

His descant wildly thus begun ; 
" But that I may not stain with grief 

The death-song'of my father's son 1 

Or bow his head in woe ; 

For, by my wrongs and by my wrath ! 

To-morrow Areouski's breath, 

That fires yon heaven with storms of death, 

Shall light us to the foe : 

And we shall share, my Christian boy, 

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 

" But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 
By milder genii o'er the deep, 
The spirits of the white man's heaven 
Forbid not thee to weep : — 
Nor will the Christian host, 
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 
To see thee, on the battle's eve, 
Lamenting, take a mournful leave 
Of her who loved thee most : 
She was the rainbow to thy sight! 
Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 

11 To-morrow let us do or die ! — 
But, when the bolt of death is hurl'd, 
Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, 
Shall Outalissi roam the world ? — 
Seek we thy once-loved home ? — 
1?he hand is gone that cropp'd its flowers ! 
Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! 
Cold is the hearth within their bowers! 
And should we thither roam, 
Its echoes, and its empty tread, 
Would sound like voices from the dead ! 

" Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, 
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd 
And by my side, in battle true, 
A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? — 
Ah ! there, in desolation, cold, 
The desert-serpent dwells alone, 
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, 
And stones themselves to ruin grown, 
Like me, are death-like old ! 
Then seek we not their camp — for there 
The silence dwells of my despair ! 



LYRICAL PIECES. 35 

1 But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou 
In glory's fires sbalt dry thy tears ! 
Even from the land of shadows, now 
My father's awful ghost appears 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll ! 
He bids my soul for battle thirst — 
He bids me dry — the last !• — the first ! 
The only tears that ever burst 
From Or.talissi's soul ! 
Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief." Campbell. 



BRUCE TO HIS ARMY. 

In the year 1313, the weak and worthless Edward II invaded Scotland 
with the most formidable army that had ever left England, consisting 
of not less than 100,000 men, admirably equipped, and headed by the 
flower of English chivalry. King Kobert Bruce met him on the banks 
of Bannockburn, at a short distance from Stirling, with only 40,000 Scots. 
The following poetical address is supposed to be spoken by Bruce, on the 
approach of the enemy. The English were defeated; an immense slaugh- 
ter followed; and Scotland was delivered from her invaders. Sir 
"William Wallace, in the time of Edward I, had bravely, but not success- 
fully, struggled for the freedom of his native country : it was now secured 
by Bruce. 

Scots, wha* hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victory 1 

Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front of battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power, 
Chains and slavery! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha, for Scotland's king and law, 
Freedom's sword would strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa',* 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains, 

By your sons in servile chains ! 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free ! 

* " Wha" and " fa " are pronounced so as to rhyme with " law." 



36 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Lay the proud usurper low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 

Let us do, or die ! Burns. 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

The celebrated Spanish Champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made 
several ineffectual attempts to procure the release of his father, the 
Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by Alphonso, King of the 
Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms 
in despair. The war which he waged proved so destructive that the 
men of the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding 
Saldana's liberty. Alphonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate 
possession of his father's person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. 
Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold with all his cap- 
tives; and, being assured that bis father was then on his way from 
prison, he rode forth with the King to meet him. 

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire : 
" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train ; 
I pledge my faith, my liege, my lord, oh ! break my father's 
chain." 

" Rise ! rise ! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this 

day; 
Mount thy good steed, and thou and I will meet him on his 

way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed ; 
And urged, as if with lance in hand, his charger's foaming speed. 

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, they met a glittering 

band, 
With one, that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the land : 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth is he, 
The father, — whom thy grateful heart hath yearned so long to 

see." 

His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flashed, his cheeks' hue 
came and went ; 

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there dis- 
mounting bent ; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — 

What was there in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold, a frozen thing, it dropped from his, like 

lead; 
He looked up to the face above, the face was of the dead ; 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow was fixed and 

white ; 
He met at length his father's eyes, but in them was no sight ! 



LYRICAL PIECES. 37 

Up from the ground he sprung and gazed ; but who can paint 

that gaze ? 
They hushed their very hearts, who saw its horror and amaze : 
They might have chained him, as before that noble form he 

stood ; 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his cheek 

the blood. 

11 Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood 

then — 
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his high renown ; 
Then flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. 

And, covering with his steel-gloved hands, his darkly-mournful 

brow, 
u No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for, now ; 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father, oh ! the worth, 
The glory and the loveliness are passed away from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! beside thee 

yet, 

I would that there our kindred blood, on Spain's free soil had 

met; 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for thee my fields were 

won, 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou badst no 

son !" 

Up from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the mon- 
arch's rein, 
Amid the pale, and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; 
And, with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, 
And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead. 

u Came I not here, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? 
Be still! and gaze thou on false king, and tell me what is this? 
The look, the voice, the heart I sought — give answer, where are 

they ? 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay. 

u Into those glassy eyes put light ; be still, keep down thine ire ; 
Bid those cold lips a blessing speak, — this earth is not my sire ; 
Give me back him for whom I fought, for whom my blood was 

shed ; 
Thou canst not, and a king! his blood be mountains on thy 

head !" 



38 LYRICAL PIECES. 

He loosed the rein, his slack hand fell ; upon the silent face 
He cast one long, deep mournful glance, and fled from that sad 

place : 
His after-fate no more was heard amid the martial train ; 
His banner led the spears no more among the hills of Spain ! 

Mrs. Hemans. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

This great battle was fought in the year 1704. The Duke of Marlborough 
and Prince Eugene commanded the British and their allies; while 
Marshal Tallard led the French and Bavarian forces. Blenheim is a 
small town of Bavaria; and it is situated not far from the Danube. The 
following poem is an admirable antidote against the poison likely to be 
infused by the details of warlike exploits. Why should wholesale 
butchery and devastation be reckoned glorious? 

It was a summer's evening, 

Old Kaspar's work was done ; 
And he, before his cottage door, 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilbelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 

Roll something large and round, 
Which he, beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found; 
He came to ask what he had found, 
That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And, with a natural sigh, 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
11 Who fell in the great victory. 

"I find them in the garden, 

For there's many here about ; 
And often, when I go to plough, 

The ploughshare turns them" out 
For -many thousand men," said he, 
" Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now, tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up, 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
"Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they killed each other for." 



LYRICAL PIECES. 39 

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, 

11 Who put the French to rout : 
But what they killed each other for, 

I could not well make out. 
But every body said," quoth he, 
" That 'twas a famous victory 1 

11 My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burned his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly : 
So, with his wife and child, he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head ! 

11 With fire and sword, the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born baby died ! — 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say, it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ! — 
But, things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, 

And our good prince, Eugene." 
11 Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
11 Nay — Nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory ! 

11 And every body praised the Duke 

Who this great fight did win." 
11 But what good came of it at last?" 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 
" But 'twas a famous victory !" Southky. 



THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



40 LYRICAL PIECES. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery ! 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven ! 
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ! 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery ! 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly! 

'Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy 1 

The combat deepens — On ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
And every turf, beneath their feet, 

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre ! Campbell. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 

The head quarters of the English before the battle of Waterloo, were at 
Brussels; and on the night preceding the march to the field, there was 
a grand ball given by the inhabitants of that city to the British officers. 
It has been currently reported that Lord Wellington was surprised by 
Napoleon; and that some of the officers were shot in their ball dresses. 
This has been contradicted, however, on good authority : and it is said 
that the Duke was fully aware o/ the enemv's approach, but did not 
wish to create any alarm in the city by divulging his private intelligence. 
The officers therefore, were allowed' to attend the ball, with orders to 
hold themselves in readiness for being called away at a moment's 
warning. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gathered then 

Her Beauty and her Chivalry ; and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 



LYRICAL PIECES. 41 

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked lore to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; — 
But hush ! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell I ^ 

Did ye not hear it? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet, 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-£>--— ~~ 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is! — the cannon's opening roar I [__^~ — t 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ;* he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear : 
And, when they smiled because he deemed it near, !/* 
His heart, more truly, knew that peal too well, 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance, blood alone could quell ! 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting fell ! j ^ 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ?/^* 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar j 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! they come, they 

come I" i 
^ — . . _ _ 

* The Duke of Brunswick's fatliei* had been slain in battle, a short time 
before, and his troops were in mourning for him when they appeared in 
the battle field. The young Duke himself was killed at Waterloo. 




42 LYRICAL PIECES. 

And wild and high the u Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's* hills 
Have heard — and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! Bat, with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring, which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years ; .* 

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! jy^ 

And Ardennesf waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves — 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure ; when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, - 

And burning with high hope — shall moulder cold and low ! ff 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn, the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover — heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! I 

Byron. \yS 

BURIAL OF SIR J. MOORE. 

After Napoleon had by his victories laid all continental Europe pros- 
trate at his feet, he turned his ambition towards Spain and Portugal. 
By uniting, in the first instance, the French arms with those of Spain, 
he contrived to expel the king of Portugal from his country, and then 
to gain possession of it himself. In the next place, by sowing dissen- 
sions in the royal family at Madrid, he induced the wretched members 
of it, successively, to put themselves under his protection at Bayonne; 
and then he declared that the Bourbons had ceased to rule in Spain! 
Joseph Buonaparte was subsequently appointed by Napoleon to govern 
in that country ; but he reigned amidst the hatred of an insulted and 
betrayed nation, until Sir John Moore came with an English army, to 
relieve the country from such injustice and oppression. Napoleon how- 
ever, inundated the peninsula with troops, so that this gallant general 
w r as obliged to retreat before a superior force to Corunna. On arriving 
within sight of the harbour, where the wearied and harassed soldiers 
were to embark, the transports had not arrived, and it was necessary 

* Scotland. 

t The forest of Soignie, called here Ardennes, extends along the line of 
march from Brussels to Waterloo. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 43 

that the British army should either surrender or repel their pursuers— 
the latter alternative was chosen. A desperate combat ensued; the 
French were driven back, but Sir John Moore fell— in the arms of 
victory. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 

As his corse to the ramparts we harried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, 

Q^er the grave where our hero was buried. 

"We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the straggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay — like a warrior taking his rest — 
With his martial cloak around him ! 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead— 
And we bitterly thought of to-morrow — 

"We thought — as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow — 
How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And, o'er his cold ashes, upbraid him : 
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave, where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring, 

And we heard the distant and random gun, 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory! 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 

But we left him alone in his glory ! Wolfe. 



ENGLAND'S OAK. 

Let India boast her spicy trees, whose fruit and gorgeous bloom 
Give, to each faint and languid breeze, its rich and rare perfume; — 
Let Portugal and haughty Spain display their orange groves, 
And France exult, her vine3 to train around her trim alcoves — 



44 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Old England has a tree. as strong, as stately as them all, 

As worthy of a minstrel's song in cottage and in hall. 

"lis not the yew-tree, though it lends its greenness to the grave ; 

Nor willow, though it fondly bends its branches o'er the wave ; 

Nor birch, although its slender tress be beautifully fair, 

As graceful in its loveliness as maiden's flowing hair. 

7 Tis not the poplar, though its height may from afar be seen ; 

Nor beech, although its boughs be tipt with leaves of glossy green. 

All these are fair, but they may fling their shade unsung by me ; 
My favourite, and the forest's king, the British Oak shall be ! 
Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound ; its giant branches 

throw 
Their arms in shady blessings round, o'er man and beast below ; 

Its leaf, though late in spring it shares the zephyr's gentle sigh, 
As late and long in autumn, wears a deeper, richer dye. 
Type of an honest English heart, it opes not at a breath, 
But having opened, plays its part until it sinks in death. 

Its acorns, graceful to the sight, are toys to childhood dear; 
Its mistletoe, with berries white, adds mirth to Christmas cheer. 
And, when we reach life's closing stage, worn out with care or ill, 
For childhood, youth, or hoary age, its arms are open still. 

But prouder yet its glories shine, when, in a noble form, 
It floats upon the heaving brine, and braves the bursting storm ; 
Or when, to aid the work of love, to some benighted clime 
It bears glad tidings from above, of Gospel truths sublime : 

Oh ! then, triumphant in its might, o'er waters wild and dark, 
It seems, in Heaven's approving sight, a second glorious Ark. 
Hail then thou forest's honoured king ! man's castle on the sea! 
Who will, another tree may sing — Old England's Oak for me! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I come, I come ! ye have called me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song; 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of Ihe violet's birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers, 
By thousands, have burst from the forest bowers ; 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. 
— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 



LYRICAL PIECES. 45 

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy north, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free, 

And the pine lias a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright where my step has been. 

I have sent, through the wood-paths, a gentle sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-bough, into verdure, breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain— 

They are rolling on to the silvery main, 

They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, 

They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, 

They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 

And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. 

Come forth, ye children of gladness, come! 
Where the violets lie, may now be your home, 
Ye of the rose-cheek, and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ; 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine ; I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ; 
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ; 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And Youth is abroad in my green domains. 

Mrs. Hemans. 



THE RUINED COTTAGE. 

2s"oke will dwell in that cottage ; for, they say 
Oppression reft it from an honest man, 
And that a curse clings to it. Hence the vine 
Trails its green weight of leaves upon the ground ; 
Hence weeds are in the garden ; hence the hedge, 
Once sweet with honey suckle, is half-dead ; 
And hence the gray moss on the apple tree. 
One once dwelt there, who, in his youth, 
Had been a soldier; and, when many days 
Had passed, he sought his native village, 
And sat down, to end his days in peace. 



46 LYRICAL PIECES. 

He bad one child, a little laughing thing, 
Whose dark eyes, he said, were like her mother's, 
She had left buried in a strange land. 

And time went on in comfort and content; 
And that fair girl had grown far taller 
Than the red-rose tree, her father planted 
On her first English birth-day. He had trained it 
Against an ash, till it became his pride, 
It was so rich in blossom and in beauty. 
It was called the tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal 
To all the finer feelings of the heart 
To mark their quiet happiness ; their home, 
In truth, the house of love; and, more than all, 
To see them on the Sabbath, when they came, 
Among the first, to church. And Isabel, 
With her bright colour and her clear blue eyes, 
Bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer; 
And, in the hymn, her sweet voice audible. 
Her father looked so fond of her, and then, 
From her looked up so thankfully to heaven. 
Then their small cottage was so very neat, 
Their garden filled with fruits and flowers and herbs ; 
And in the winter there was no fireside 
So cheerful as their own. 

But other days 
And other fortunes came — and evil power ; 
They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped 
For better times ; but ruin came at last, 
And the old soldier left his dear home, 
And left it for a prison. 'Twas in June, 
One of June's brightest days ; the bee, the bird, 
The butterfly, were on their lightest wiijgs ; 
The fruits had their first tinge of summer light; 
The sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad ; 
But the old man looked back upon his cottage, 
And wept aloud. They hurried him away, 
And the dear child, that would not leave his side! ' 
They led him from the sight of the blue heaven 
And the green grass, into a low dark cell, 
The windows shutting out the blessed sun 
With iron grating ; and, for the first time, 
He threw him on the bed, and could not hear 
His Isabel's good night. 

But the next morn 
She was the earliest at the prison gate, 
The last on whom it closed, and her sweet voice 
And sweeter smile made him forget to pine. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 47 

She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers, 

But every morning he could mark her cheek 

Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones 

Get fainter and more faint; and a cold dew 

Was on the hand he held. One day he saw 

The sun shine through the grating of his cell, 

Yet Isabel came not. At every sound 

His heart-beat took away his breath ; 

Yet still she came not near him. One sad day 

He marked the dull street, through the iron bars, 

That shut him from the world. At length, 

He saw a coffin carried carelessly along ; 

And he grew desperate. He forced the bars ; 

And he stood on the street, free and alone. 

He had no aim, no wish for liberty ; 

He only felt one want — to see the corpse, 

That had no mourners. When they set it down, 

Ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave, 

A rush of passion came upon his soul ; 

He tore off the lid, and saw the face 

Of Isabel, and knew he had no child. 

He lay down by the coffin quietly — 

His heart was broken ! Mrs. Maclean (L. E. L.) 



WATER. 

♦ 

Wine ! wine ! thy power and praise 

Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays ; 

But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim 

To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. 

Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school, 

May sneer at my strain as the song of a fool ; 

Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn 

How the tongue^ can cleave and the veins can burn. 

Should you ever be one of a fainting band, 

With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand, 

While breathing the dry and feverish air, 

Your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there ; 

Traverse the desert, and then you can tell 

What treasures exist in the deep cold well ; 

Sink in despair on the red parched earth, 

And then you may reckon what water is worth. 

Famine is laying her hand of bone 
On the ship, becalmed in a torrid zone; 
The gnawing of hunger's worm is past, 
But fiery thirst lives on to the last. 



48 LYRICAL PIECES. 

The stoutest one of the gallant crew 
Hath cheeks and lips of ghastly hue ; 
And hot blood stands in each glassy eye, 
And " Water, oh Water !!' 's the only cry. 

There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead, 

No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed ; 

The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant, 

Are mournfully telling the boon we want. 

Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, 

How soon we would find it is better than gold ; 

And water, I say, hath a right to claim 

The minstrel's song and a tithe of fame. Eliza Cooke. 



THE MORNING DREAM. 

'Twas in the glad season of Spring, 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
I dreamed what I cannot but sing, 

So pleasant it seemed as I lay. 
I dreamed, that, on ocean afloat, 

Far hence to the westward, I sailed, 
While the billows high lifted the boat 

And the fresh-blowing breeze never failed. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such, at least, was the form that she wore, 
Whose beauty impressed me with awe, 

Ne'er taught me by woman before. 
She sat, and a shield, at ber side, 

Shed light, like a sun, on the waves, 
And, smiling divinely, she cried — 

I go to make freemen of slaves ! 

Then, raising her voice to a strain, 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
She sung of the slave's broken chain, 

Wherever her glory appeared, 
Some clouds, which had over us hung, 

Fled, chased by her melody dear, 
And methought, while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, 

To a slave-cultured island we came, 

Where a demon, her enemy, stood — 
Oppression his terrible name. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 49 

In his hand, as the sign of his sway, 

A scourge, hung with lashes, he bore, 
And stood looking out for his pre)" 

From Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But sood, as approaching the land, 

That goddess-like woman he viewed, 
The scourge he let fall from his hand, 

"With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
I saw him both sicken and die, — 

And the moment the monster expired, 
Heard shouts, that ascended the sky, 

From thousands with rapture inspired. 

Awaking, how could I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide? 
But soon my ear caught the glad news, 

Which served my weak thought for a guide — 
That Britannia, renowned o'er the waves, 

For the hatred she ever has shown 
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 

Resolved to have none of her own. Cowper. 



OUR FATHER'S AT THE HELM. 

The hurricane was at its worst, the waves dashed mountains 

high ; 
When, from a gallant ship, there burst a loud and fearful cry. 
The captain's son sat on the deck — a young and lovely child : 
And when they spake of certain wreck, he shook his head and 

smiled. 
'Mid groans of care and deep despair, and manhood's bitter tear. 
That gentle boy, all hope and joy. betrayed no signs of fear. 

A mariner, who strove in vain to nerve his troubled soul, 
Thought of his wife and babes with pain, nor could his fears 

control, 
Approached the boy, and, with a loud and almost angry tone — 
r Tell me," he cried, " Art thou endowed with courage all thine 

own? 
Dar'st thou defy, or doubt the sky hath power to overwhelm ?" 
That vouthful child looked up and smiled — " Mv Father's at the 

Helm !" 

Oh ! could we think as that blest child, while wandering here 

below, 
"We should not dread the tempest wild, the storm of mortal woe ; 



50 LYRICAL PIECES. 

The waves of misery might dash above our little bark, 

And human wrath, like lightning, flash, then leave our life-track 

dark ; 
His soul all calm, no thoughts of harm the Christian overwhelm ; 
Firm in the thought with safety fraught — his Father's at the 

Helm. Miss M. S. Boyle. 



ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 

sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
When leagued Oppression i>our'd to Northern wars 
Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet-horn j 
Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid : 
" Heaven !" he cried, " my bleeding country save 1 — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high ! 
And swear, for her to live ! — with her to die ! " 

He said, and, on the rampart-heights, array'd 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ! 
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death ! — the watchword and reply j 
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm ! — 

In vain — alas ! in vain, ye gallant few 1 
From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew : 
Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime 1 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career ; 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shriek'd — as Kosciusko fell 1 

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, 
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air — 



LYRICAL PIECES. 51 

On Prague's prond arch the fires of ruin glow, 
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. 
The storm prevails ! the rampart yields away — 
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy cali ! 
Earth shook ! red meteors flash'd along the sky! 
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry ! 

righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, 
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 
Where was thine arm, Yengeance ! where thy rod 
That smote the foes of Zion and of God? 
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car 
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar ? 
Where was the storm that slumber'd, till the host 
Of blood-stain' d Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! — 
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! 
Yet, for Sarmatia's tears of blood, atone, 
And make her arm puissant as your o^n ! 
Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return 
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn ! 

Campbell. 



THE BRANDED HAND. 

A sea-captain of Boston, trading to a Southern port in 1846, received some 
fugitive slaves on board his vessel, when he was returning to the Xorth. 
Tliey were found there by the officers of a United States Revenue 
Cutter; and the vessel was taken hack to the harbour she had left. 
For the alleged crime of slave-stealing the Captain was branded on the 
hand with the letters " S. S." 

Welcome home again, brave seaman! with thy thoughtful 

brow and gray, 
And the old heroic spirit of our earlier better day — 
With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve in 

vain 
Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts of pain ! 

Is the tyrant's brand upon thee ? Did the brutal cravens aim 
To make God's truth thy falsehood, his holiest work thy sbame? 
When all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron was with- 
drawn, 
How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to scorn ! 



52 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Why, that brand is highest honor ! — than its traces never yet, 
Upon old armorial hatchments, was a prouder blazon set : 
And thy unborn generations, as they tread our rocky strand, 
Shall tell with pride the story of their father's branded hand ! 

As the templar home was welcomed, bearing back from Syrian 

wars 
The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scimetars, 
The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson span, 
So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and 

man! 

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave, 
Thou for his living presence, in the bound and bleeding slave ; 
Be for a soil, no longer by the feet of angels trod, 
Thou for the true Shechinah, the present house of God. 

In thy long and lone night watches, sky above and wave 
below, 

Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom, than the babbling school- 
men know ; 

God's stars and silence taught thee, as his Spirit only can, 

That the one sole sacred thing, beneath the cope of Heaven, is 
Man! 

That he, who tread profanely on the scrolls of Law and Creed, 
In the depths of God's great goodness, may find mercy in his 

need ; 
But woe to him, who crushes the soul with chain and rod, 
And herds with lower natures the awful form of God ! 

Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman of the wave ! 
Its branded palm shall prophesy, " Salvation to the Slave!" 
Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso reads, may feel 
His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel. 

Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our Northern air — 

Ho ! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God, look there ! 

Take it henceforth for your standard — like the Bnice's heart of 
yore, 

In the dark strife closing round you, let that hand be seen be- 
fore. 

And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that sign, 
"When it points its finger southward, along the Puritan line ; 
Woe to the state-gorged leeches, and the church's recreant band, 
When they look, from Slavery's ramparts, on the, coming of 
that hand ! John G. Whittier. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 53 



THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 

Hie Vaudois, or Waldenses were Bible Christians when there were but 
few Bibles to be found any where in Europe. They were accustomed 
to go as pedlars from house to house selling their wares, and giving 
away copies of The Word. 

11 Oh ! lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare — 
The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's self might 

wear : 
And these pearls are pure as thine own fair neck, with whose 

radiant light they vie — 

I have brought them with me a weary way, will my gentle lady 

buy?" 

And the lady smiled on the worn old man,through the dark and 
clustering curls, 

Which veiled her brow, as she bent, to view his silks and glit- 
tering pearls 

And she placed the price in the old man's hand, as she lightly 
turned away, 

But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call, " My gentle lady, 
stay ! ; ' 

" Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem, which a purer lustre flings, 
Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown, on the lofty brow 

of kings — 
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not 

decay, 
Whose light shall be a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way !" 

The lady glanced at mirroring steel, where her form of grace 

was seen, 
Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved, their 

clasping pearls between ; 
"Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray 

and old — 
And name the price of thy precious gem, and my pages shall 

count thy gold." 

The cloud went off from the old man's brow, as a small and 

meagre book, 
Unchased with gold or diamond gem, from his folding robe he 

took, 

II Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to 

thee, 
Nay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, for the word of God is free." 

The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift, he left behind, 
Hath had its pure and perfect work, on that high-born maiden's 
mind, 



54 LYRICAL PIECES. 

And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of 

truth, 
And given her human heart to God in the beautiful hour of youth. 

And she has left the gray old halls, where an evil faith hath 

power, 
The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her 

bower ; 
And she has gone to the Yaudois vales, by lordly feet untrod, 
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of 

God ! Ibid. 



MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fiVd eyes 
Seem a heart overcharged to express ? — 

She weeps not, yet, often and deeply, she sighs ; 

She never complains — but her silence implies 
The composure of settled distress ! 

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek ; 

Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak 
On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare ; and her cheek 

Has the deadly pale hue of despair ! 

Yet cheerful and happy — nor distant the day — 

Poor Mary, the maniac, has been : 
The traveller remembers, who journey'd this way, 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn ! 

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, 

As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, 
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night, 

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 

She loved ; and young Richard had settled the day, 

And she hoped to be happy for life : 
But Richard was idle and worthless ; and they 
Who knew him, would pity poor Mary, and say, 

That she was too good lor his wife. 

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, 

And fast were the windows and door ; 
Two guests sat enjoying the fire, that burn'd bright; 
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, 

They listen'd to hear the wind roar. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 55 

11 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fire-side, 

11 To hear the wind whistle without." 
11 A fine night for the Abbe}* !" his comrade replied : 
Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, 
Who should wander the ruins about. 

" I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 

The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear ; 

For this wind might awaken the dead." 

11 I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 

" That Mary would venture there now :" 
u Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied ; 
11 I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, 

And faint, if she saw a white cow !" 

11 Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" 

His companion exclaim'd, with a smile : 
11 I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, 
And earn a new bonnet, by bringing a bough 

From the alder, that grows in the aisle." 

With fearless good humour did Mary comply, 

And her way to the Abbey she bent — 
The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high ; 
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, 

She shiver'd with cold as she went. 

O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, 

Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
Through the gateway she enter'd — she felt not afraid — 
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. 

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast 

Howl'd dismally round the old pile ; 
Over weed-cover' d fragments still fearless she pass'd, 
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle. 

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, 

And hastily gather'd the bough — 
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear — 
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear, 

And her heart panted fearfully now ! 

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head : — 

She listen'd ; — nought else could she hear. 
The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, 
For she heard in the ruins — distinctly — the tread 

Of footsteps approaching her near. 



56 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 

She crept, to conceal herself there ; 
That instant, the moon, o'er a dark cloud, shone clear, 
And she saw, in the moonlight, two ruffians appear, 

And between them — a corpse did they bear ! 

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold ! 

Again the rough wind hurried by — 
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold! 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd — 

She fell — and expected to die ! 

" Curse the hat!" — he exclaims — " Nay, come on, and fast 
hide 

The dead body I" his comrade replies. 
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, 
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, 

And fast through the Abbey she flies ! 

She ran with wild speed, she rush' d in at the door, 

She look'd horribly eager around : 
Her limbs could support their faint burden no more; 
But, exhausted and breathless, she sunk on the floor, 

Unable to utter a sound. 

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, 

For a moment the hat met her view — 
Her eyes from that object convulsively start, 
For, Heaven! what cold horror thrill'd thro' her heart, 

When the name of her Richard she knew ! 

Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by, 

His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
Nor far from the inn it engages the eye ; 
The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, 

Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Southey. 



VERSES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICH- 
MOND. 

Methinks it is good to be here : 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah ! no : 
Affrighted he shrinketh away ; 

For see ! they would pin him below 
To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 57 

To Beauty ? Ah ! no : she forgets 
The charms that she wielded before ; 

Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets 
The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore 
For the smoothness it held, or the tiut which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which dizen the proud? 

Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. 

To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain : 
Who hid, in their turns have been hid ; 

The treasures are squander'd again ; 
And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid 
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board, 
But the guests are all mute, as their pitiful cheer, 
And none, but the worm, is a reveller here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah ! no ; they have wither'd and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above, — 
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow ? The dead cannot grieve, — 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve ; 
Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear ; 
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? 
Ah ! no ; for his empire is known, 

And here there are trophies enow ; 
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, 
Are the signs of a sceptre, that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd ; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies. 

Herbert Knowles. 

F 



58 LYRICAL PIECES. 



A BETH GELERT. 

The spearman heard the bugle sound, 
And cheerly smiled the morn ; 

And many a brach, and many a hound, 
Attend Llewellyn's horn : 

And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a louder cheer — 
11 Come, Gelert ! why art thou the last, 

Llewellyn's horn to hear? 

u Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ? 

The flower of all his race ! 
So true, so brave ; a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase !" 

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board 

The faithful Gelert fed ; 
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, 

And sentinelled his bed. 

In sooth, he was a peerless hound, 

The gift of royal John ; 
But now no Gelert could be found, 

And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as over rocks and dells " 

The gallant chidings rise, 
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 

With many mingled cries. 

That day Llewellyn little loved 

The chase of hart or hare : 
And scant and small the booty proved j 

For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, 

When, near the portal-seat, 
His truant Gelert he espied, 

Bounding his lord to greet. 

But, when he gained the castle-door, 

Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore, 

His lips and fangs ran blood 



LYRICAL PIECES. 59 



Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, 

Unused such looks to meet ; 
His favourite checked his joyful guise, 

And crouched, and licked his feet. 

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed — 

And on went Gelert too — 
And still, where'er his eyes were cast, 

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ! 

O'erturned his infant's bed, he found 
The blood-stained covert rent ; 

And all around, the walls and ground 
With recent blood besprent. 

He called his child — no voice replied ; 

He searched — with terror wild ; 
Blood ! Blood ! he found on every side, 

But no where found the child! 

11 Monster ! by thee my child's devoured i" 

The frantic father cried ; 
And to the hilt, his vengeful sword 

He plunged in Gelert's side ! — 

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, 

No pity could impart ; 
But still his Gelert's dying yell 

Passed heavy o'er his heart. 

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 
Some slumberer wakened nigh : 

What words the parent's joy can tell, 
To hear his infant cry ! 

Concealed beneath a mangled heap, 
His hurried search had missed, 

All glowing from his rosy sleep, 
His cherub-boy he kissed ! 

'Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread- 
But, the same couch beneath, 

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead — 
Tremendous still in death ! 

Ah ! what was then Llewellyn's pain, 
For now the truth was clear : 

The gallant hound the wolf had slain, 
To save Llewellyn's heir. 



60 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe ; 

" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
The frantic deed, which laid thee low, 

This heart shall ever rue !" 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 

With costly sculpture decked ; 
And marbles, storied with his praise, 

Poor Gelert's bones protect. 

Here never could the spearman pass, 

Or forester, unmoved ; 
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass 

Llewellyn's sorrow proved. 

And here he hung his horn and spear ; 

And oft, as evening fell, 
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear 

Poor Gelert's dying yell 1 Spencer. 



THE ESCAPED CONVICT. 

He trod his native land, the bright land of the free ; 
His forehead wore a seared brand, the stamp of infamy ; 
His brow, where youth and beauty met, yes ! there the seal of 
guilt was set. 

He gazed upon the vale, where spring tide flowerets slept, 
Rocked by the whispers of the gale — he saw it, and he wept ; 
Like drops, presaging storms, they came — tears born in agony 
and shame. 

Morn sat upon the hill, but she looked cold and dim ; 

Clouds, like a pall, which death conceals, hung frowning there 

on him ; 
All, e'en his loved, his mother land, scowled on the forehead and 

the brand ; 

" My sire ! my sire !" he groaned, " my home ! my lovely one ! 
What sire ? He hath his child disowned! What home ? I, I have 

none, 
I hear all curse, I see all shun ; but curse not thou, not thou 

thy son ! 

"I saw her struck, whose cheek did myriad sweets disclose, — 
Whose eyes — whose form — but wherefore speak ? I saw — my 

heart-blood rose, 
She loved me — she had sworn my bride — I stabbed the striker, 

and he died. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 61 

11 For this the record lies, festering upon my brow ; 

For this the rabble mocked my cries ; for this shame haunts 

me now ; 
For this half rotted I must be, ere my dead brow from stain is 

free. 

" My own, my beauteous land ! land of the brave and high ! 

I asked but this, of Fate's stern hand, to see thee, and to 

die — 
0, yes, my country! let me be, in my last hour, in death, with 

thee!" 

The moon looked down upon the vale, wearing her starry wreath, 
And soft displayed a form, that pale, lay there alone with death. 
The zephyrs drew a lengthened sigh, and slow the convict's 
corse passed by. — 

'Twas said, that lovely night a spirit youth was seen 

Gliding among the flowerets bright, the trees and meadows 

green, 
But chiefly by yon cot, and there it slowly melted into air. 



THE POET'S LOT. 

When Jove had encircled our planet with light, 
And had rolled the proud orb on its way, 

Ordaining the moon, to illume it by night, 
And the proud sun, to rule it by day. 

The reign of its surface was found to agree 
With the wisdom, that governed the plan : 

He divided the earth, he apportioned the sea ; 
And gave the dominion to man. 

The hunter, he sped to the forest and wood ; 

And the husbandman seized on the plain : 
The fisherman launched his canoe on the flood ; 

And the merchant embarked on the main. 

The mighty partition was finished at last, 
When a figure came dreamingly on ; 

But fearful and wild, were the looks that he cast, 
When he found that the labour was done. 

The mien of disorder, the wreath, which he wore, 
And the frenzy, that flashed from his eye ; 

And the lyre of ivory and gold, which he bore, 
Proclaimed that the poet was nigh. 



62 LYRICAL PIECES. 

He rushed, all in tears at the fatal decree, 
To the foot of the Thunderer's throne, 

And complained that no spot on the earth or the sea 
Had been given to the Bard as his own. 

The Thunderer smiled at his prayer and his mien, 
Though he mourned the request was too late, 

And he asked, in what region the poet had been, 
When his lot was decided by Fate. 

"0 pardon my error," he humbly replied, 
" Which sprang from a vision too bright; 

My soul, at that moment, was close by thy side, 
Entranced in those regions of light. 

"It hung on thy vision, it basked in thy smile, 

It rode on thy glances of fire ; 
And forgive, if, bewildered and dazzled the while, 

It forgot every earthly desire." 

" The earth," said the Monarch, "is portioned away, 

And I cannot reverse the decree ; 
But the heavens are mine, with their regions of day, 

And their portals are open to thee." 



THE ARAB'S ADDRESS TO HIS HORSE. 

Away, away my barb and I ! — free as the wave, fleet as the wind, 
We scour the sands of Araby, and leave a world of slaves behind. 
'Tis mine to roam in this wild garb, nor e'er feel lonely though 

alone ; 
I would not change my Arab barb, to mount a drowsy Sultan's 

throne. 
Where the pale stranger does not come — 'tis mine, in this wild 

garb, to rove. 
An Arab tent my only home, an Arab maid my only love — 
Here freedom dwells without a fear ; coy to the world she loves 

the wild 
Who ever brings a fetter here to chain the desert's fiery child? 
What, though the Frank may name with scorn our barren clime 

a realm of sand, 
Here were our thousand fathers born — Oh ! who would scorn his 

father's land ? 
It is not sands that form a waste, nor laughing fields a happy 

clime ; 
The spot, the most by freedom graced, is where man feels the 

most sublime. 
Away, away my barb and 1 1 — free as the wave, fleet as the wind, 
We scour the sands of Araby, and leave a world of slaves behind. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 63 



LOCHINVAR. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; 
And, save his good broad sword, he weapon had none; 
He rode all unarra'd, and he rode all alone! 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 

He swam the Esk river, where ford three was none — 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar! 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all! 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,— 

For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — 

" Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war? 

Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!" 

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied : 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! 
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar l* 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup ! 
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,— 
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
"Now tread we a measure I" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ! 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, 

And the brid^-maidens whisperd, " 'Twere better by far 

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!" 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; 

So light, to the croup, the fair lady he swung, 

So light, to the saddle before her, he sprung ! 

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow !" quoth young Lochinvar. 



64 LYRICAL PIECES. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 

Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? Scott. 



CASABIANCA, THE FAITHFUL SON. 

Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral 
of the Orient, remained at his post in the battle of the Nile after the 
ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned ; and he 
perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flame had reached the 
powder. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he, had fled ; 
The flame, that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the 

dead. 
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go without his father's 

word ; — 
That father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. 
He called aloud : — " Say, father, say, if yet my task is done !" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father !" once again he cried, " if I may yet be gone ! 
And" — but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames 

rolled on. 
Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, 
Yet looked, from that lone post of death, in still, but brave 

despair. 

He shouted but once more aloud, " My father ! must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires 

made way. 
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag, on 

high, 
And streamed, above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound, the boy — oh ! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds, that, far around with fragments strewed the 
sea ! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their 
part — 

But the noblest thing that perished there, was that young faith- 
ful heart ! 

Mrs. Hemans. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 65 

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT. 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young ! 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung: 
— " Ianthis ! dost thou sleep ? — thou sleep'st ! — but this is not the 

rest, 
The breathing and the rosy calm I have pillowed on my breast. 
I lulled thee not to this repose, Ianthis, my sweet son ! 
As in thy laughing childhood's days by twilight I have done. 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now ? 
And that I die not, seeing death on thy pale, glorious brow? 
I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave I 
Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye 
Hath closed above the falcon glance that in it loved to lie, 
And fast is bound the springing step that seem 7 d on breezes 

borne, 
When to thy couch I came and said, * Wake, hunter, wake ! 'tis 

morn !' 
— Yet lovely art thou still, my flower, untouch'd by slow decay ; 
And I, the wither'd stem, remain !~ I would that grief might slay. 
Oh ! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee I 
I saw it in thy kindling cheek and in thy bearing high ! 
— A voice came whispering to my soul and told me thou must 

die! 
That thou must # die, my fearless one, when swords were flashing 

red — 
Why doth a mother live to say — My first-born and my dead ! 
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won, 
Speak thou — and I will hear thy voice, Ianthis, my sweet son I" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young ! 
A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung: 
— a Ianthis ! look'st thou not on me ? — Can love indeed be fled? 
— When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head i 
I would that I had followed thee, Ianthis ! my beloved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood, where faithful hearts* are 

proved ! 
That I had »irt a breast-plate on, and battled at thy side 
— It would have been a blessed thing, together had we died. 
But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board ? 
Or singing some sweet song of old in the shadow of the vine? 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? 
— And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy 

heart 
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring — and couldst thou thus 

depart? 



66 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips poor out thy fleeting breath? 

Oh ! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death ! 

Yes ! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was 
led, 

And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast 
was spread ! 

But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where singing javelins 
flew — 

— Why did I hear love's first sweet words and not its last adieu ? 

What now can breathe of gladness more — what scene, what hour, 
what tone ? 

The blue skies fade with all their lights — they fade since thou 
art gone. 

E'en that must leave me — that still face, by all my tears un- 
moved ! 

— Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis, my beloved!" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young 1 
Amidst her tears the Funoral Chant a mourning sister sung : 
u Ianthis, brother of my soul !— oh, where are now the days, 
That shone, amidst the deep green hills, upon our infant plays ? 
When we two sported by the streams, or track'd them to their 

source, 
And like a stag's the rocks among, was thy fleet fearless course. 
— I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, 
I see thy bounding step no more — my brother and my friend ! 
I come with flowers — for spring is come — Ianthis 1 art thou here ? 
I bring the garlands she hath brought — I castthfcm on thy bier. 
Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's wreath — but oh ! more 

meet they seem, 
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream ; 
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid so early low — 
— Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amid the sunshine's glow ! 
The golden glow, that through thy heart was wont such joy to 

send — 
— Woe that it smiles and not for thee, my brother and my friend |" 



FLIGHT OF O'CONNOR'S CHILD, AND DEATH OF HER 

LOVER. 

At bleating of the wild watch-fold 
Thus sang my love— " Oh, come with me! 
Our bark is on the lake— behold 
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. 
Come far from Castle-Connor clans ! 
Come with thy belted forestere, 
And I, beside the lake of swans, 
Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer ; 



LYRICAL PIECES. 67 

And build "thy hut, and bring thee home 
The wild fowl and the honey-comb 
And berries from the wood provide 
And play my clarshech by thy side — 
Then come, my love!" — How could I say? * 
Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way, 
.And I pursued by moonless skies, 
The light of Connocht Aloran's eyes! 

And fast and far, before the star 

Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade, 

And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 

Of Castle-Connor fade. 

Sweet was to us the hermitage 

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore; 

Like birds all joyous from the cage, 

For man's neglect we loved it more ! 

And well he knew, my huntsman dear, 

To search the game with hawk and spear; 

While I, his evening food to dress, 

"Would sing to him in happiness ! 

But oh, that midnight of despair, 

When I was doom'd to rend my hair! 

The night to me of shrieking sorrow ! 

The night to him — that had no morrow! 

When all was calm at even-tide, 

I heard the baying of their beagle : 
1 Be hush'd !' my Connocht Moran cried, 
1 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle ' — 

Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound, 

Their bloody bands had tracked us out; 

Up-listening starts our couehant hound — 

And, hark ! again that nearer shout 

Brings faster on the murderers. 

Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce! 

In vain — no voice the adder charms ; 

Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms ; 

Another's sword has laid him low — 

Another's and another's ; 

And every hand that dealt the blow — 

Ah me ! it was a brother's ! 

Yes, when his moanings died away, 

Their iron hands had dug the clay, 

And o'er his burial turf they trod, 

And I beheld — 

His life-blood oozing from the sod! Campbell. 



68 LYRICAL PIECES. 



THE SISTER'S CURSE. 

" And go !" I cried, " the combat seek, 
Ye hearts that unappalled bore 
The anguish of a sister's shriek, 
Go ! — and return no more ! 
For sooner gnilt the ordeal brand 
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold 
The banner with victorious hand, 
Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd." 

stranger ! by my country's loss ! 
And by my love ! and by the cross! 

1 swear I never could have spoke 
The curse that sever r d nature's yoke j 
But that a spirit o'er me stood, 

And fired me with the wrathful mood ; 
And frenzy to my heart was given, 
To speak the malison of heaven. 

They would have cross'd themselves all mute, 

They would have pray'd to burst the spell! 

But, at the stamping of my foot, 

Each hand down powerless fell! 
" And go to Athunree !" I cried, 
" High lift the banner of your pride ! 

But know, that, where its sheet unrolls, 

The weight of blood is on your souls! 

Go, where the havoc of your kerne 

Shall float as high as mountain fern ! 

Men shall no more your mansion know ; 

The nettles, on your hearth, shall grow ! 

Dead as the green oblivious flood, 

That mantles by your walls, shall be 

The glory of O'Connor's blood ! 

Away! away to Athunree! 

Where, downward when the sun shall fall, 

The raven's wing shall be your pall ! 

And not a vassal shall unlace 

The vizor from your dying face I" 

A bolt, that overhung our dome, 
Suspended till my curse was given, 
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, 
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven ! 
Dire was the look, that, o'er their backs. 
The angry parting brothers threw : 
But now, behold ! like cataracts, 
Come down the hills in view, 



LYRICAL PIECES. 69 

O'Connor's plumed partisans, 

Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans 

Were marching to their doum : 

A sudden storm their plumage toss'd, 

A flash of lightning o'er them crossed, 

And all again was gloom ! Ibid. 



ODE TO WINTER. 

When first the fiery-mantled sun 
His heavenly race began to run, 
Round the earth and ocean blue, 
His children, four, the Seasons, flew. 
First, in green apparel dancing, 

The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; 
Rosy Summer, next advancing, 

Rush'd into her sire's embrace — 
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to her smiles, 
On Calp^'s olive-shaded steep, 

On India's citron-cover'd isles : 
More remote and buxom-brown, 

The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne : 
A rich pomegranate gemmd her crown, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone ! 

But howling Winter fled afar, 
To hills that prop the polar star, 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride, 
With barren darkness by his side, 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 

Whirls to death the roaring whale ! 
Round the hall where Runic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale ! — 
Save when, adown the ravaged globe, 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, 

And trampling on her faded form : — 
Till light's returning lord assume 

The shaft, that drives him to his polar field, 
Of power to pierce his raven plume, 

And crystal-cover'd shield ! 

sire of storms ! — whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye, 
Implores thy dreadful deity — 



70 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Archangel ! power of desolation ! 

Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath immortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart? 
Then, sullen winter, hear my prayer, 

And gently rule the ruin'd year; 
No*r chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 

Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ; — 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 

Thy horror breathing agues cease to lend; 
Aod gently on the orphan'd head 

Of Innocence descend ! 

But chiefly spare, king of clouds ! 
The sailor on his airy shrouds ; 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
And spectres walk along the deep ! 
Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 

Or the dark brown Danube roars. 
winds of Winter ! list ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan, 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own! 
Alas ! even your unhallow'd breath 

May spare the victim, fallen low ; 
But man will ask no truce to death — 

No bounds to human wo. Ibid. 



ODE TO ELOQUENCE. 

Heard ye those loud-contending waves, 
That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state? 

Saw ye the mighty, from their graves, 
Look up, and tremble at her fate ? 

Who shall calm the angry storm ? 
Who the mighty task perform, 

And bid the raging tumult cease ? 
See the son of Hermes rise, 
With siren tongue, and speaking eyes, 

Hush the noise, and soothe to peace I 

See the olive branches, waving 
O'er Ilissus' winding stream, 

Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving, 
The Muses smiling by, supreme ! 



LYRICAL PIECES. 71 

See the nymphs and swains advancing, 
To harmonious measures dancing : 

Grateful Io Paeans rise 
To thee, Power ! who can inspire 
Soothing words — or words of fire, 

And shook thy plumes in Attic skies ! 

Lo! from the regions of the north, 

The reddening storm of battle pours, 
Rolls along the trembling earth, 

Fastens on the Olynthian towers. 

11 Where rests the sword ? — where sleep the brave ? 
Awake ! Cecropia's ally save 

From the fury of the blast : 
Burst the storm on Phocis' walls ! 
Rise! or Greece for ever fails ; 

Up ! or Freedom breathes her last." 

The jarring states, obsequious now, 

View the patriot's hand on high ; 
Thunder gathering on his brow, 

Lightning flashing from his eye. 

Borne by the tide of words along, 

One voice, one mind, inspire the throng: 

u To arms ! to arms ! to arms !" they cry ; 
11 Grasp the shield, and draw the sword ; 
Lead us to Philippi's lord ; 

Let us conquer him, or die !" 

Ah, Eloquence ! thou wast undone ; 

"Wast from thy native country driven, 
When Tyranny eclipsed the sun, 

And blotted out the stars of heaven ! 

When Liberty from Greece withdrew, 
And o'er the Adriatic flew 

To where the Tiber pours his urn — 
She struck the rude Tarpeian rock, 
Sparks were kindled by the stroke — 

Again thy fires began to burn ! 

Now shining forth, thou madest compliant 

The conscript fathers to thy charms, 
Roused the world-bestriding giant, 

Sinking fast in Slavery's arms. 



72 LYRICAL PIECES. 

I see thee stand by Freedom's fane, 
Pouring the persuasive strain, 

Giving vast conceptions birth : 
Hark ! I hear thy thunder's sound 
Shake the Forum round and round, 

Shake the pillars of the earth 1 

First-born of Liberty divine! 

Put on Religion's bright array : 
Speak ! and the starless grave shall shine 

The portal of eternal day ! 

Rise, kindling with the orient beam, 
Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme, 

Unfold the garments roll'd in blood 1 
Oh, touch the soul — touch all her chords 
With all the omnipotence of words, 

And point the way to heaven — to God! 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son, 
Aloft in awful state, 
The god-like hero sat 
On his imperial throne. 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound : 
So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sat like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, placed on high 

Amid the tuneful choir, 

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire — 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seat above — 
Such is the power of mighty love ! 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia press'd, 



LYRICAL PIECES. 73 

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the loft}' sound : 
14 A present deity ! : ' they shout around ; — 
14 A present deity !" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
"With ravish'd ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young ! 
The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
Flush'd with a purple grace, 
He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath ! — he comes ! he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain : 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure ; 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain ! 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again : 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he heaven and earth defied — 
Changed his hand and check'a his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse, 
Soft pity to infuse ! 
He sung Darius great and good ! 
By too severe a fate, 
Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! 
Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ! 

Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes ! 
With downcast look the joyous victor sat, 
Revolving in his altered soul, 

The various turns of fate below ; 
And now and then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow ! 

G 



74 LYRICAL PIECES. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree : 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move; 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honour but an empty bubble \ 
Never ending, still beginning, 

Fighting still, and still destroying. 
If the world be worth thy winning, 

Think, oh think it worth enjoying! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause : 
So love was crown'd ; but music won the cause. — 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair, 
Who caused his care, 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look r d, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast ! 

Now strike the golden lyre again ! 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder] 
Hark ! hark ! — the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head, 
As awaked from the dead ; 
And amazed, he stares around ! 
Revenge! revenge! Tiinotheus cries — 
See the furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 
Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain ! 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew ! 
Behold! how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods! 
The princes applaud with a furious joy, 
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy ; 



LYRICAL PIECES. 75 

Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey! 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
Thus, long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute ; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire. 
At last, divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame. 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down I Dryden. 



THE PASSIONS. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, — 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng' d around her magic cell, 
Exalting, trembling,, raging, fainting, 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined: 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched their instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each — for madness ruled the hour — 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ; 

And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 
Even at the sound himself had made. 

Next, Anger rush'd. his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hands, the strings. 



76 LYRICAL PIECES. 

With woful measures, wan Despair — 

Low sullen sounds ! — his grief beguiled J 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air 5 

'Twas sad, by fits— by starts, 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ! 
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And, from the rocks, the woods, the Yale, 

She call'd on Echo still through all her song. 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ; 

And, with a withering look, 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum, with furious heat. 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ; 
While each strain'd ball of sight — seemed bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd : 

And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And, from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
And, dashing soft, from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound. 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; 
Or, o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay — 

Round a holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace and lonely musing — 
In hollow murmurs died away. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 77 

But, oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
Her buskins gemni'd with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale aad thicket rung; 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. 

The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial, 
He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressM. ; 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw, in Tetnpe's vale, her native maids, 
Amid the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round — 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amid his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Collins. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. 

Adieu, adieu! — my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 

Yon sun that sets upon the sea, 

We follow in his flight : 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native land, — Good night ! 

A few short hours, and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 

Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall— 

My dog howls at the gate. 



78 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Come hither, hither, my little page, 
Why dost, thou weep and waii ? 

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 
Or tremble at the gale ? 

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship is swift and strong: 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along. 

" Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
Am sorrowful in mind: 

u For I have from my father gone, 
A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend save these alone, 
But thee — and One above. 

" My father bless'd me fervently, 
Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh, 
Till I come back again." 

Enough, enough, my little lad, 
Such tears become thine eye — 

If I thy guiltless bosom had, 
Mine own would not be dry ! 

Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman 7 
Why dost thou look so pale ? 

Or dost thou dread a French foeman, 
Or shiver at the gale ? 

" Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 
Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

" My spouse's boys dwell near thy hall, 
Along the bordering lake ; 
And when they on their father call, 
What answer shall she make ?" 

Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 
Thy grief let none gainsay ; 

But I, that am of lighter mood, 
Will laugh to flee away. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 79 

For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of friend or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes, 

We late saw streaming o'er. 

For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is — that I leave 

Nothing that claims a tear. 

And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 

Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger-hands ; 
But, long e'er I come back again, 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine! 

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves ! 

My native land, — Good night ! Byron. 



THE MARINER'S SONG. 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, 

And fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant 

mast — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. 

u for a soft and gentle wind," I heard a fair one cry ; 

But give to me the snoring breeze and white waves heaving 

high— 
And white waves heaving high, my boys ; the good ship tight 

and free, 
The world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon ; there's lightning in yon 

cloud ; 
And hark! the music mariners! — the wind is piping loud — 
The wind is piping loud, my boys ; the lightning flashes free ; 
While the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea! 

Allan Cunningham. 



80 LYRICAL PIECES. 



PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away! Come away! hark to the summons, 
Come in your war-array, Gentles and Commons ! 

Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky! 

The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy, 

Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, 

Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. * 

Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter, 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd, the bride at the altar. 
Leave the deer — leave the steer, leave nets and barges ; 
Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. 

Come, as the winds come, when forests are rended! 
Come, as the waves come, when navies are stranded 1 
Faster come ! — Faster come ! faster and faster ! 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master ! 

Fast they come! Fast they come! see how they gather, 
Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids ! Draw your blades ! forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dha! now for the onset! Scott. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

Wizard. Lochiel! Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array I 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight: 
They rally ! — they bleed ! — for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed, to the desert, flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, U Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albyn ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead: 
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 81 

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer 1 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight! 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Wizard. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, 
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ! Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyry, that beacons' the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling, all lonely ! — return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd. my clan: 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave, on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day! 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the blood-hounds, that bark for thy fugitive king. 
Lo ! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, 
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : 
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 
7 Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors j 
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores : 
But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banislrd, forlorn, 

H 



82 LYRICAL PIECES. 

Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn ? 
Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near; 
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 
His death-bell is tolling ; oh ! mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 
Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, 
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : 
For never shall Albyn a destiny meet, 
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, 
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. Campbell. 



BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 

I never see a young hand hold 

The starry bunch of white and gold, 

But something warm and fresh will start 

About the region of my heart ; — 

My smile expires into a sigh ; 

I feel a struggling in my eye, 

'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, 

Till rolling tears have won their way ; 

For, soul and brain will travel back, 

Through memory's chequered mazes, 
To days, when I but trod life's track 

For buttercups and daisies. 

There seems a bright and fairy spell 
About their very names to dwell ; 
And though old Time has marked my brow 
With care and thought, I love them now. 
Smile, if you will, but some heart-strings 
Are closest linked to simplest things: 
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, 
Till love, and life, and all be past ; 
And then the only wish I have 

Is, that the one who raises 
The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave 

With buttercups and daisies. Eliza Cook. 



DEAMATIC SELECTIONS. 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 

To be — or not to be? — that is the question. — 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 

The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And, by opposing, end them ? — To die — to sleep — 

No more ! — and, by a sleep, to say we end 

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep — 

To sleep ? — perchance to dream ! — ay, there's the rub ! 

For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, 

"When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause. — There's the respect, 

That makes calamity of so long life : 

For, who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office and the spurns, 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes — 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 

To groan and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, — 

That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne 

No traveller returns !— puzzles the will ; 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of. 

Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all : 

And thus, the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises, of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action ! Shakspeare. 



84 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 



CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL, 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear. 

In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 

Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 

And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 

Of me must more be heard ; say then, I taught thee — 

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways to glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in — 

A sure, and safe one — though thy master miss'd it. 

Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me : 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ! 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? 

Love thyself last *, cherish those hearts that hate thee : 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still, in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. 

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 

Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st T CromwelI 7 

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; 

And, pr'ythee, lead me in 

There, take an inventory of all I have ; 

To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe, 

And my integrity to Heaven, are all 

I dare now call my own. Cromwell ! Cromwell ! 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 

I served my king, he would not, in mine age, 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. Ibid, 



HENRY Y. TO HIS SOLDIERS. 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, 

Or close the wall up with the English dead ! 

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, 

As modest stillness and humility : 

But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Then, imitate the action of the tiger ; 

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage ; 

Then, lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head 

Like the brass cannon ! 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 85 

Now, set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide ; 

Hold hard the breath ; and bend up every spirit 

To its full height. Now, on, you noblest English! 

Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war proof; 

Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, 

Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, 

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument! 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. — The game's afoot ! — 

Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 

Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George ! Ibid. 



HENRY Y.'s SPEECH BEFORE THE BATTLE OF AGIN- 
COURT. 

What's he that wishes for more men from England? 

My cousin Westmoreland ! — No, my fair cousin : 

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow 

To do our country loss ; and, if to live, 

The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 

No, no, my lord ; wish not a man from England ! 

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host, 

That he, who hath no stomach to this fight, 

May straight depart : his passport shall be made, 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 

We would not die in that man's company ! 

This day is called the Feast of Crispian. 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 

Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named, 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian ! 

He that outlives this day, and sees old age, 

Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his neighbours : 

And say — To-morrow is Saint Crispian ! 

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars. 

Old men forget, yet shall not all forget, 

But they'll remember with advantages, 

What feats they did that day. Then shall our names, 

Familiar in their mouths as household-words,— 

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster, — 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. 

This story shall the goodman teach his son ; 

And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by, 

From this time to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remember'd ; 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ! 



86 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me, 

Shall be my brother — be he e'er so vile. 

This day shall gentle his condition ; 

And, gentlemen in England, now a-bed, 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here ; 

And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks 

That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day. Ibid. 



MARCELLUS'S SPEECH TO THE MOB. 

"Wherefore rejoice? that Caesar comes in triumph! 

What conquest brings he home ? 

What tributaries follow him to Rome, 

To grace in captive bonds his chariot- wheels? 

You blocks! you stones! you worse than senseless things! 

Oh you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome ! 

Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 

Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, 

To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops— 

Your infants in your arms — and there have sat 

The live-long day, with patient expectation, 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ? 

And, when you saw his chariot but appear, 

Have you not made a universal shout, 

That Tiber trembled underneath his banks, 

To hear the replication of your sounds, 

Made in his concave shores ? 

And do you now put on your best attire ? 

And do you now cull out a holiday? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way, 

That comes in triumph over Pompey' s blood ? 

Begone ! 

Run to your houses ! fall upon your knees ! 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plagues, 

That needs must light on this ingratitude ! Ibid. 



SPEECH OF CASSIUS TO BRUTUS. 

I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar; so were you; 
We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 87 

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 

Caesar said to me, Darest thou, Cassius, now 

Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point? — Upon the word, 

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,- 

And bade him follow : so indeed he did. 

The torrent roared, and we did buffet it 

With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside, 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

But, ere we could arrive the point proposed, 

Caesar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. 

I — as JEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder, 

The old Anchises bear — so, from the waves of Tiber, 

Did I the tired Cassar: and this man 

Is now become a god; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body 

If Cassar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake ; 

His coward lips did from their colour fly ; 

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the World, 

Did lose its lustre : I did hear him groan : 

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

Alas ! it cried, Give me some drink, Titinius, 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world 

Like a Colossus, and we petty men 

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 

To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 

Men at some time are masters of their fates : 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 

But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

Brutus and Caesar: What should be in that Caesar? 

Why should that name be sounded more than yours? 

Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; 

Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; 

Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure them, 

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 

Now, in the names of all the gods at once, 

Upon what meat does this our Caesar feed, 

That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! 

Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! 



88 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

When went there by an age, since the great flood, 

But it was famed with more than with one man ? 

When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 

That her wide walls encompassed but one man? 

! you and I have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked 

The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, 

As easily as a king. Ibid. 



BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF C.ESAR. 

Brutus, Cassius, and other patriots assassinated Julius Csesar. Antony, 
Octavius, and Lepidus, the friends of Caesar, wished to avenge his 
death, and aggrandise themselves. 

Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers! — hear me for my cause; 
and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour ; 
and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Cen- 
sure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may 
the better judge. — If there be any in this assembly, any dear 
friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus's love to Caesar was 
no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose 
against Caesar, this is my answer : not that I loved Caesar less, 
but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, 
and die all slaves ; than that Caesar were dead, to live all free- 
men ? — As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, 
I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as he was 
ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his 
fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambition ! — 
Who's here so base, that would be a bondman ? if any, speak ! 
for him have I offended. Who's here so rude, that would not be 
a Roman? if any, speak I for him have I offended. Who's here 
so vile, that will not love his country ? if any, speak 1 for him 
have I offended. — I pause for a reply. 

None ? then none have I offended ! I have done no more to 
Caesar than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death 
is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not extenuated, wherein he 
was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered 
death. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, though 
he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his 
dying, a place in the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not? 
With this I depart — that, as I slew my best lover for the good of 
Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please 
my country to need my death. Ibid. 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 89 



MARK ANTONY'S ORATION. 

Friexds, Romans, countrymen ! lend me your ears. 

I come to bury Cassar, not to praise him. 

The evil that men do, lives after them ; 

The good is oft interred with their bones : 

So let it be with Caesar ! — Noble Brutus 

Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious : 

If it was so, 'twas a grievous fault, 

And grievously hath Caesar answered it \ 

Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest — 

For Brutus is an honourable man ! 

So are they all ! all honourable men — 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me— 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man I 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? 
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff! — 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious : 
And Brutus is an honourable man! 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
I thrice presented him with a kingly crown, 
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And sure he is an honourable man! 
I speak, not to disprove what Brutus spoke; 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once ; not without cause : 
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? 
judgment ! thou hast fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me : 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar ; 
And I must pause till it come back to me ; 

But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 
Have stood against the world — now lies he there, 
And none so poor as do him reverence ! 

masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all knoAV, are honourable men ! — 

I will not do them wrong . I'd rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 
Than I will wrong such honourable men ! — 
But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar — 



90 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

I found it in his closet — 'tis his will ! 
Let but the commons hear this testament — 
Which, pardon me. I do not mean to read, — 
And they will go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory ; 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
Unto their issue! — 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle? I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on : 
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent — 
That day he overcame the Nervii! — 
Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through ! 
See what a rent the envious Casca made ! 
Through this — the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ! 
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Cassar followed it! — 
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel !— 
Judge, ye gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! 
This, this was the unkindest cut of all ; 
For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab! — 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, 
Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue — 
Which all the while ran blood ! — great Caesar fell ! 
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down ; 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us ! 
Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops! 
Kind souls ! what ! weep you when you but behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? — look you here! 
Here is himself— marred, as you see, by traitors !— 

Good friends ! sweeet friends ! let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny! 
They that have done this deed, are honourable ! — 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
That made them do it : they are wise and honourable, 
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. 
I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 
But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, 
That loves his friend— and that they know full well, 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 91 

That gave me public leave to speak of him — 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 

To stir men's blood ; I only speak right on! 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; 

Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths ! 

And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 

In every wound of Caesar, that should move 

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny ! Ibid, 



BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 

Cas. That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this : 
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein, my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted of? 

Bru. You wrong'd yourself, to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offence should bear its comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, be assured, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What ! shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? 
And sell the mighty space of our large honours, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? — 
I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me, 
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 



92 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you're not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say, you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man 1 

Cas. Is't possible ! 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. Must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ? ay, more : Fret, till your proud heart break ; 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humour ? 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you : for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say, you are a better soldier ; 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well : For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus. 
I said, an elder soldier, not a better ; 
Did I say better? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have mov'd me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not ? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love, 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that, you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;— 
For I can raise no money by vile means : 
I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 93 

From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, 

By any indirection. I did send 

To you for gold to pay ray legions, 

Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? 

Should I have answer' d Caius Cassius so? 

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 

Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : —he was but a fool, 
That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath riv'n my heart : 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, ARtony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; brav'd by his brother ; 
Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observ'd, 
Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote, 
To cast into his teeth. 0, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, my heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : 
Strike, as thou didst at Caesar ; for, I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better 
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger : 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, 
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire : 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 



94 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. Brutus ! — 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When that rash humour, which my mother gave me, 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Ibid, 



OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. 

Most potent, grave, and reverend Signiors, 

My very noble and approved good masters ; 

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 

It is most true ; true, I have married her ; 

The very head and front of my offending 

Hath this extent ; no more. Rude am I in speech, 

And little blessed with the set phrase of peace : 

For, since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 

Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used 

Their dearest action in the tented field ; 

And little of this great world can I speak, 

More than pertains to feats of broils and battles ; 

And therefore little shall I grace my cause 

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience, 

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver 

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 

What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 

(For such proceedings I am charged withal) 

I won his daughter with. 

Her father loved me, oft invited me, 
Still questioned me the story of my life, 
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I have past. 

I ran it through, even from my boyish day3 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances ; 
Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 
And with it all my travel's history ; 
Wherein of antres vast, and deserts wild, 
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven 7 
It was my hint to speak. — All these to hear 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 95 

Would Desdemona seriously incline : 

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence, 

Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 

Devour up my discourse : which I observing", 

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate ; 

Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 

But not distinctively. I did consent, 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 

When I did speak of some distressful stroke 

That my youth suffered. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. 

She said, 'twas strange indeed, 'twas passing strange ; 

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful 

She wished she had not heard it — yet she wished 

That Heaven had made her such a man : she thanked me, 

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. On this hint I spake : 

She loved me for the dangers I had past ; 

And I loved her that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have used. Ibid. 



RICHMOND ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS. 

Thus far into the bowels of the land 

Have we marched on without impediment. 

Richard, the bloody and devouring chief, 

Whose ravenous appetite has spoiled your fields, 

Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropped 

Its ripened hopes of fair posterity, 

Is now even in the centre of the isle. 

Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just ; 

And he but naked, though locked up in steel, 

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted : 

The very weight of Richard's guilt shall crush him. 

Then, let us on, my friends, and boldly face him. 

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man 

As mild behaviour and humanity; 

But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment. 

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt 

Shall be this body on the earth's cold face; 

But, if we thrive, the glory of the action, 



96 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

The meanest soldier here shall share his part of. 

Advance your standards, draw your willing swords, 

Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully ; 

The words, " St. George, Richmond, and Victory!" Ibid. 



SHYLOCK JUSTIFYING HIS MEDITATED REVENGE. 

Antonio, a wealthy and liberal-hearted merchant in Venice, became surety 
for his friend, Bassanio, to the Jew, Shylock. The bond stipulated that 
if the money, 3000 ducats, were not paid on a certain day, the Jew might 
cut a pound of flesh from the body of Antonio. Shylock, himself, had 
offered the money free of interest on this strange condition, pretending 
that it was in sport ; but he meant it in earnest; for he hated Antonio. 
The following scene, which is, perhaps, the finest specimen of dramatic 
writing to be found anyAvhere, contains the trial of Antonio's case, after 
the forfeiture of the bond for non-payment. 

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath 
disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million ! laughed at my 
losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my 
bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies ! And what's 
his reason ? I am a Jew ! Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath not a Jew 
hands? organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is 
he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, 
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed 
and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is? 
If you stab us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not 
laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, 
shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will 
resemble you in that! If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his 
humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should 
his sufferance be by Christian example ? Why, Revenge 1 The 
villainy you teach me I will execute ; and it shall go hard, but 
I will better the instruction. Ibid. 



Portia, who appears in the following scene as a learned lawyer, is a rich 
heiress, who has lately married Bassanio. Nerissa, who acts as her 
clerk, is wife to the witty Gratiano. The two ladies play their parts 
well. 

SCENE I. Venice. A Court of Justice. Enter the Duke, the 
Magnificoes ; Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salarino, Sal- 
anio, and others. 

Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 

Ant. Ready, so please your grace. 

Duke. I am sorry for thee ; thou art come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 97 

Ant. I have heard, 

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify 
His rigorous course ; but, since he stands obdurate, 
And that no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's* reach, I do oppose 
My patience to his fury ; and am arm'd 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. 

Sedan. He's ready at the door ; he comes, my lord. 

Enter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face.— 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought, 
Thou'lt show thy mercy, and remorse,! more strange 
Than is thy strange apparent^ cruelty : 
And wherejj thou now exact'st the penalty, 
(Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,) 
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture, 
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love, 
Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 
That have of late so huddled on his back ; 
Enough to press a royal merchant down, 
And pluck commiseration of his state 
From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, 
From stubborn Turks, and Tartars, never train'd 
To offices of tender courtesy. 
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shy. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose ; 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn, 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond : 
If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. 
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive 
Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that :§ 
But, say, it is my humour ; Is it answer'd ? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat, 

* Envy in this place means hatred or malice. 

t Remorse in Skakspeare's time generally signified pity, tenderness. 
t i.e. seeming, not real. II Whereas. 

§ Th^ Jew, being asked a question which the law does not require him to 
answer, stands upon his right and refuses; but afterwards gratifies his 
own malignity by such answers as he knows will aggravate the pain of the 
inquirer. 

I 



98 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats 

To have it baned ? What, are you answer'd yet ? 

Some men there are, love not a gaping pig ;* 

Some, that are mad, if they behold a cat ; 

And others, when the bag-pipe sings i' the nose, 

Cannot contain themselves ; For, affection,! 

Master of passion, sways it to the mood 

Of what it likes or loathes : Now for your answer: 

As there is no firm reason to be render'd, 

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig : 

Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 

Why he, a woollenj bag-pipe ; but of force 

Must yield to such inevitable shame, 

As to offend, himself being offended ; 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 

More than a lodg'd hate, and certain loathing 

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 

A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd? 

Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 

Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 

Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? 

Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? 

Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first. 

Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice? 

Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew : 
You may as well go stand upon the beach, 
And bid the main flood bate hi3 usual height ; 
You may as well use question with the wolf, 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, 
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; 
You may as well do any thing most hard, 
As seek to soften that (than which what's harder?) 
His Jewish heart : — Therefore I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no further means, 
But, with all brief and plain convenieney, 
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 

Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 

Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them, I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none? 

* A pig prepared for the table is most probably meant, for in that state 
is the epithet gaping most applicable to this animal, 
t Affection stands here for tendency, disposition, 
t It was usual to cover with woollen cloth the bag of this instrument. 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 99 

Shi/. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? 
You have among you many a purchas'd slave, 
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, 
Because you bought them ! — Shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
Why sweat they under burdens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates 
Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer, 
The slaves are ours ' — So do I answer you : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought, 'tis mine, and I will have it: 
If you deny me, fye upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Yenice : 
I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it? 

Duke. Upon my power, I may dismiss this court. 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day* 

Salar. My lord, here stays without 

A messenger, with letters from the doctor, 
New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters ; Call the messenger. 

Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man? courage yet I 
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, 
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death ; the weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me : 
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, 
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. 

Enter Nerissa, dressed like a Lawyefs Clerk. 

Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 

Ner. From both, my lord : Bellario greets your grace. 

[Presents a letter* 

Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ! 

Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. 

Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul,* harsh Jew, 
Thou mak'st thy knife keen : but no metal can, 
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness 
Of thy sharp envy.f Can no prayers pierce thee ? 

Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. 

Gra. 0, be thou shamed, inexorable dog! 
And for thy life let justice be accus'd. 

* The conceit is that his soul was so hard that it might serve him for a 
whet-stone. t Malice. 

Lore. 



100 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, 
To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 
That souls of animals infuse themselves 
Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit 
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter, 
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, 
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, 
Infus'd itself in thee ; for thy desires 
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd and ravenous. 

Shy. Till thou can'st rail the seal from off my bond, 
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud : 
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
To cureless ruin. — I stand here for law. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court: — 
Where is he ? 

Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 

To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart : some three or four of you, 
Go, give him courteous conduct to this place. — 
Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter. 

[Clerk reads.] Your grace shall understand, that, at the receipt 
of your letter, I am very sick : but in the instant that your messenger 
came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome, his 
name is Balthasar : I acquainted him with the cause in contro- 
versy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant : we turned o J er 
many books together : he is furnished with my opinion : which y 
bettered with his own learning, (the greatness whereof I cannot 
enough commend,) comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your 
grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no 
impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation ; for I never knew 
so young a body with so old a head. Heave him to your gracious 
acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation. 

Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario what he writes : 
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. — 

Enter Portia dressed like a Doctor of Laws. 

Give me your hand : came you from old Bellario ? 

Por. I did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome : take your place. 

Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court ? 

Por. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

Por. Is your name Shylock ? 

Shy. Shylock is my name. 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 101 

Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow. 
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn* you, as you do proceed — 
You stand within his danger,f do you not? [To Antonio. 

Ant. Ay, so he says. 

Por. Do you confess the bond? 

Ant. I do. 

Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shy. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 

Por. The quality of mercy is not s train' d ;t 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself : 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. § I have spoken thus much, 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Por. Is he not able to discharge the money? 

Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; 
Yea, twice the sum ; if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart : 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. || And, I beseech you, 

* To impugn is to oppose, to controvert. 

t i. e. within his reach or control. The phrase is thought to be derived 
from a similar one in the monkish Latin of the middle age. 

+ Shakspeare probably recollected the following verse of Ecclesiasticus, 
xxxv. 20, in composing these beautiful lines : ' Mercy is seasonable in the 
time of affliction, as clouds of rain in the time of drought/ 

§ Portia referring the Jew to the Christian doctrine of Salvation, and 
the Lord's Prayer, is a little out of character. 

|| i. e. malice oppressed honesty, a true man in old language is an honest 
man. We now call the jury good men and true. 



102 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

Wrest once the law to jour authority : 
To do a great right, do a little wrong ; 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Por. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established ; 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; 
And many an error, by the same example, 
Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 

Shy. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!— 
wise young judge, how do I honour thee ! " 

Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

Por. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. 

Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven ! 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 
No, not for Venice. 

Por. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh ; to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart : — Be merciful ; 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor. — 
It doth appear, you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law, your exposition 
Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment : verily, I swear, 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Por. Why then, thus it is. 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife : 

Shy. noble judge ! excellent young man ! 

Por. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shy. 'Tis very true : wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 

Por. Therefore lay bare your bosom. 

Shy. Ay, his breast ; 

So says the bond ; — Doth it not, noble judge ? — 
Nearest his heart, those are the very words. 

Por. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh 
The flesh? 

Shy. I have them ready. 

Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 103 

Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 
Por. It is not so express'd ; But what of that? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 
Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. 

Por. Come, merchant, have you any thing to say ? 

Ant. But little ; I am arm'd. and well prepar'd. — 
Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well 1 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you : 
For herein fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom : it is still her use, 
To let the wretched man out-live his wealth, 
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, 
An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance 
Of such misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honourable wife : 
Tell her the process of Antonio's end, 
Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death : 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge, 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, 
And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 

Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife, 
Which is as dear to me as life itself: 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life : 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this monster, to deliver you. 

Por. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love ; 
I would she were in heaven, so she could 
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 

Ne'r. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; 
The wish would make else an unquiet house. 

Shy. These be the Christian husbands : I have a daughter : 
Would any of the stock of Barrabasf 

Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! [Aside. 

We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine j 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shy. Most rightful judge ! 

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

t Shakspeare seems to have followed the pronunciation usual to the 
theatre, Barabbas being sounded Barrabas throughout Marlowe's Jew of 
Malta. 



104 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence : come, prepare. 
Por. Tarry a little : — there is something else. — 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gra. upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ; learned judge! 
Shy. Is that the law ? 

Por. Thyself shall see the act : 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd, 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st. 

Gra. learned judge ! — Mark, Jew — a learned judge ! 
Shy. I take this offer then ; — pay the bond thrice, 
And let the Christian go. 

Bass. Here is the money. 

Por. Soft ; 

The Jew shall have all justice : — soft ! — no haste ; — 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 
Por. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh, 
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more, 
Or less, than a just pound, — be it but so much 
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple ; hay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, — 
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 

Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. 
Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 
Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 
Por. He hath refus'd it in the open court ; 
He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel ! — 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Why then the mischief give him good of it! 
I'll stay no longer question. 

Por. Tarry, Jew ; 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
If it be prov'd against an alien, 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 105 

That by direct, or indirect attempts, 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party, 'gainst the which he doth contrive, 
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state, 
And the offender's life lies in thje mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st : 
For it appears by manifest proceeding, 
That, indirectly, and directly too, 
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
Of the defendant : and thou hast incurr'd 
The danger formerly by me rehears'd. 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 

Gra. Beg, that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself : 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 
Por. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. 
Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that : 
You take my house, when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life, 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 
Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? 
Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else, I pray you. 
Ant. So please my lord the duke and all the court, 
To quit the fine for one half of his goods j 
I am content, so he will let me have 
The other half in use, — to render it, 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter : 
Two things provided more. — That, for this favour, 
He presently become a Christian ; 
The other, that he do record a gift, 
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd, 
Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter. 

Duke. He shall do this ; or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 
Por. Art thou contented, Jew, what dost thou say ? 
Shy. I am content. 

Por. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence j 
I am not well ; send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. Ibid. 



108 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

TELL. 
Scaling yonder peak, 
I saw an eagle, wheeling near its brow 
O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air, 
As if he floated there, without their aid, 
By the sole act of his unlorded will 
That buoy'd him proudly up! — Instinctively 
I bent my bow ! — yet kept he rounding still 
His aery circle, as in the delight 
Of measuring the ample range beneath, 
And round about, absorb'd, he heeded not 
The death that threaten'd him ! — I could not shoot ! 
'Twas liberty ! — I turned my bow aside 
And let him soar away ! — 
When I wedded thee 

The land was free ! — with what pride, I us'd 
To walk these hills, and look up to my God 
And bless him that it was so ! — It was free ! — 
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free !— 
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, 
And plough our vallies, without asking leave ; 
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, 
In very presence of the regal sun ! 
How happy was I in it then ! — I loved 
Its very storms ! — Yes, Emma ! — I have sat 
In my boat, at night, when, down the mountain gorge 
The wind came, roaring — sat in it, and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smil'd 
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, 
And think I had no master, save his own ! 
You know the jutting cliff, round which a track 
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 
To such another one ? — O'ertaken there 
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, 
And while gust followed gust more furiously, 
As if 'twould sweep me o'er the horrid brink, 
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 
Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just 
Have wished me there ; the thought, that mine was free 
Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head, 
And cried, in thraldom, to that furious wind, 
Blow on 1 — This is the land of liberty ! Knowles. 



DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

My name is Norval. On the Grampian hills 
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain, 
Whose constant cares were to increase his store, 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 107 

And keep his only son, myself, at home : 

For I had heard of battles, and I long'd 

To follow to the field some warlike lord; 

And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 

This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, 

Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light, 

A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, 

Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale, 

Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled 

For safety and for succour. I alone, 

With bended bow and quiver full of arrows, 

Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd 

The road he took ; then hasted to my friends ; 

"Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, 

I met advancing. The pursuit I led, 

Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. 

We fought — and conquer'd 1 Ere a sword was drawn, 

An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief, 

Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. 

Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd 

The shepherd's slothful life ; and, having heard 

That our good king had summon'd his bold peers 

To lead their warriors to the Carron side, 

I left my father's house, and took with me 

A chosen servant to conduct my steps — 

Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. 

Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers ; 

And, heaven-directed, came this day, to do 

The happy deed, that gilds my humble name. Home. 



GLENALVON AND NORVAL. 

Glen. His port I love : he's in a proper mood 
To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. [Aside. 

Has Norval seen the troops ? 

Now. The setting sun 
With yellow radiance lightened all the vale, 
And, as the warriors moved, each polished helm, 
Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams. 
The hill they climbed, and, halting' at its top, 
Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed 
A host angelic, clad in burning arms. 

Glen. Thou talkest it well ; no leader of our host 
In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war. 

Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name, 
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty 
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration 
Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine 
Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. 



108 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 

Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir ; your martial deeds 
Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, Norval j 
Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth 
Above his veterans of famous service. 
Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. 
Give them all honour : seem not to command, 
Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power, 
Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns. 

Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days 
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ; 
And though I have been told that there are men 
Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, 
Yet in such language I am little skilled : 
Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, 
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind 
Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power 
With such contemptuous terms? 

Glen. I did not mean 
To gall your pride, which now I see is great. 

Norv. My pride ! 

Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper. 
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, 
I will not leave you to its rash direction. 
If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men, 
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn? 

Norv. A shepherd's scorn ! 

Glen. Yes ; if you presume 
To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes, 
As if you took the measure of their minds, 
And said in secret, You're no match for me — 
What will become of you ? 

Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? 

Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me? 

Norv. Didst thou not hear ? 

Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe 
Had not been questioned thus ; but such as thee 

Norv. Whom dost thou think me ? 

Glen. Norval. 

Norv. So I am 
And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes ? 

Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy ; 
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. 

Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth ? 

Glen. Thy truth ! tbou'rt all a lie ; and wholly false 
Is the vain-glorious tale thou toldest to Randolph. 

Norv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old, 
Perhaps I should revile ; but as I am, 
I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval 
Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. 



DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 109 

Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour, 
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, 
I'd tell thee — what thou art. I know thee well. 

Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command 
Ten thousand slaves like thee ? 

Norv. Villain, no more ! 
Draw and defend thy life. I did design 
To have defied thee in another cause ; 
But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. 
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs. [that stirs 

Lord Ran. [Enters.'] Hold ! I command you both ! the man 
Makes me his foe. 

Norv. Another voice than thine, 
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. 

Glen. Hear him, my lord ; he's wondrous condescending ! 
Mark the humility of Shepherd Norval ! 

Norv. Now you may scoff in safety. [Sheathes his sword. 

Lord Ran. Speak not thus, 
Taunting each other, but unfold to me 
The cause of quarrel ; then I judge betwixt you. 

Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much, 
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment. 
I blush to speak : I will not, cannot speak 
The opprobrious words that I from him have borne. 
To the liege lord of my dear native land 
I owe a subject's homage ; but even him 
And his high arbitration I'd reject. 
Within my bosom reigns another lord ; 
Honour, sole judge and umpire of itself. 
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph, 
Revoke your favours, and let Norval go 
Hence as he came, but not dishonoured ! 

Lord Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice j 
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land 
Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields ; 
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms 
Repel the bold invader ; then decide 
The private quarrel. 

Glen. I agree to this. 

Norv. And I. [Exit Randolph. 

Glen. Norval, 
Let not our variance mar the social hour, 
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph. 
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate, 
Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow : 
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame. 

Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment ; 
When we contend again, our strife is mortal. Home. 



COMIC PIECES. 



THE CHAMELEON. 

Opt has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark — 
With eyes, that hardly served at most 
To guard 1heir master 'gainst a post; 
Yet round the world the blade had been] 
To see whatever could be seen — 
Returning from his finish'd tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before : 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop— 
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow, 
I've seen, and sure I ought to know."— 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers, of such a cast — 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, 
And, on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talk'd of this, and then of that, — 
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
" A stranger animal," cries one, 
"Sure never lived beneath the sun! 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its foot, with triple claw disjoin'd ; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! and then its hue— 
Who ever saw so fine a blue !" 

" Hold there !" the other quick replies, 
it >ipj s g reen — i saw ^ with these eyes, 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; 
Stretch'd at its ease, the beast I view'd, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue ; 



COMIC PIECES. Ill 

At leisure I the beast survey'd, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." — 
11 Green !" cries the other in a fury ; 
u Why, sir — d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" 
u 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies. 
u For, if they always serve you thus, 
You'll find 'em but of little use!" 

So high, at last, the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows ; 
When, luckily, came by a third : 
To him the question they referr'd ; 
And begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew, 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 

" Sirs," cries the umpire, ""cease your pother ; 
The creature's neither one nor t'other. 
I caught the animal last night, 
Arid view'd it o'er by candle-light; 
I mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet — 
You stare — but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
And can produce it." — " Pray, sir, do : 
I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 
" And I'll be sworn that, when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 
" Well then, at once to end the doubt," 
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; 
And when before your eyes I've set him. 
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." 
He said ; then full before their sight 
Produced the beast, and lo I — 'twas white. 

Merrick. 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

A well there is in the west country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 

There is not a wife in the west country 
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 
And behind does an ash-tree grow, 

And a willow, from the bank above, 
Droops to the water below. 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully be drew nigh, 
For, from cock-crow he had been travelling, 

And there was not cloud in the sky. 



112 COMIC PIECES. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear, 

For, thirsty and hot was he , 
And he sat down, npon the bank, 

Under the willow-tree. 

There came a man from the neighbouring town, 

At the Well to fill his pail ; 
On the Well-side he rested it, 

And he bade the stranger hail. 

11 Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ? n quoth he, 

" For, an if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day, 

That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or has thy good woman — if one thou hast — 

Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For, an if she have, I'll venture my life 

She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne." 

u I have left a good woman, who never was here," 

The stranger he made reply ; 
M But, that my draught should be better for that, 

I pray you answer me why." 

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time 

Drank of this crystal Well, 
And, before the angel summon'd her, 

She laid on the water a spell : 

"If the husband— of this gifted Well 

Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man henceforth is he, 

For he shall be master for life. 

" But, if the wife should drink of it first, — 

Dear help the husband then ! " 
The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ? " 

He to the Cornish-man said : 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hasten' d as soon as the wedding was done, 

And left my wife in the porch : 
But, indeed she had been wiser than I ; 

For she took a bottle to church." Southey. 



COMIC PIECES. 113 



LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. 

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, 
Has seen " Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face : 
Some are good, and let dearly ; while some, 'tis well known, 
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. 

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, 
Hired lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only; 
But Will was so fat, he appear'd like a tun ; — 
Or like two Single Gentlemen roll'd into One. 

He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated ; 
But, all the night long, he felt fever'd and heated ; 
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep, 
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep. 

Next night 'twas the same ! — and the next! — and the next! 
He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous, and vex'd. 
Week pas3 T d after week, till, by weekly succession, 
His weakly condition was past all expression. 

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ; 
For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung about him ! 
So he sent for a doctor, and cried, like a ninny, 
"I have lost many pounds — make me well — there's a guinea." 

The doctor look'd wise : — " A slow fever," he said ; 
Prescribed sudorifics — and going to bed. 
11 Sudorifics in bed," exclaim'd Will, " are humbugs ! 
I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs P 

Will kick'd out the doctor ; — but, when ill indeed, 
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed; 
So, calling his host, he said — " Sir, do you know 
Pm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago? 

M Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, 
" That with honest intentions you first took me in : 
But, from the first night — and to say it I'm bold — 
I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I've caught cold !" 

Quoth the landlord, — " Till now, I ne'er had a dispute ; 
I've let lodgings ten years, — I'm a baker to boot ; 
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven ; 
And your bed is immediately — over my oven." 



114 COMIC PIECES. 

" The oven ! ! ! " says Will. — Says the host, " Why this passion ? 
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion ! 
Why so crusty, good sir ?" — " Ha !" cried Will in a taking, 
11 Who would not be crusty, with half a year's baking ?" 

Will paid for his rooms. Cried the host, with a sneer, 

11 Well, I see you've been going away half a year." — 

11 Friend, we can't well agree ; — yet no quarrel " — Will said ;— 

"But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread." 

COLMAN. 



THE THREE BLACK CROWS. 

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, 
One took the other briskly b-y the hand ; 
" Hark ye," said he, " 'tis an odd story this 
About the crows!" — "I don't know what it is," 

Replied his friend. " No ! I'm suprised at that; 

Where I come from, it is the common chat; 
But you shall hear an odd affair indeed! 
And that it happen'd they are all agreed : 
Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 
A gentleman, who lives not far from 'Change, 
This week, in short, as all the Alley knows, 
Taking a vomit, threw up Three Black Crows!" 

"Impossible!" -"Nay, but 'tis really true; 

I had it from good hands, and so may you." 

"From whose I pray?" -So, having named the man, 

Straight to enquire, his curious comrade ran. 

"Sir did you tell?' relating the affair. 

"Yes sir, I did; and, if 'tis worth your care, 
'Twas Mr." — such a one — " who told it me ; 
But, by the bye, 'twas Two black crows, not Three!" 

Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, 
Quick to the third the virtuoso went. 
" Sir," — and so forth. — " Why, yes ; the thing is fact, 
Though in regard to number not exact. 
It was not Two black crows, 'twa3 only One; 
The truth of that you may depend upon ; 
The gentleman himself told me the case." — 
" Where may I find him ?" — " Why in" — such a place. 

Away he went, and having found him out, 
"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." 
Then to his last informant he referr'd, 
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard : 
"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" — "Not I!" — 
" Bless me !— how people propagate a lie ! 



COMIC PIECES. 115 

Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Two, and One : 
And here, I find, all comes at last to None! 

Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" 

11 Crow — crow — perhaps I might ; now I recall 
The matter over." — "And pray, sir, what was't?" 
"Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last 
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, 

Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." 

Dr. Byrom. 



THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. 

A man in many a country town we know 
Professing openly with Death to wrestle ; 

Entering the field against the grimly foe, 
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. 

Yet some affirm, no enemies they are ; 
Bat meet just like prize-fighters in a fair: 
Who first shake hands before they box, 
Then give each other plaguy knocks, 
With all the love and kindness of a brother. 
So, — many a suffering patient saith, — 
Though the apothecary fights with Death, 
Still they're sworn friends to one another. 

A member of this iEsculapian line 
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne : 
No man could better gild a pill ; 

Or make a bill, 
Nor mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; 
Or draw a tooth out of your head; 
Or chatter scandal by your bed ; 

Or spread a plaster. 

His fame, full six miles round the country ran, 
In short, in reputation he was solus J 

All the old women call'd him u a fine man I" 
His name was Bolus. 

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade, 

— Which oftentimes will genius fetter,— 

Read works of fancy, it is said, 
And cultivated the Belles Lettres. 

And why should this be thought so odd ? 

Can't men have taste that cure a phthisic? 
Of poetry though patron god, 

Apollo patronises physic. 



116 COMIC PIECES. 

Bolus loved verse ; — and took so much delight in y t, 

That his prescriptions he resolved to write in 't : 

No opportunity he e'er let pass 

Of writing the directions on his labels, 
In dapper couplets — like Gay's Fables, 

Or rather like the lines in Hudibras. 

Apothecary's verse ! — and where's the treason ? 

"lis simple honest dealing ; — not a crime : 
When patients swallow physic without reason, 

It is but fair to give a little rhyme. 

He had a patient lying at death's door, 
Some three miles from the town — it might be four ; 
To whom one evening Bolus sent an article — 
• In pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical ; 
And on the label of the stuff, 
He wrote this verse ; 
Which one should think was clear enough, 
And terse : 
11 When taken j 

To be well shaken. 11 

Next morning early, Bolus rose ; 
And to the patient's house he goes 

Upon his pad, 
Who a vile trick of stumbling had : 
It was indeed a very sorry hack ; 

But that's of course : 

For, what's expected from a horse, 
With an apothecary on his back ? 

Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap, 
Between a single and a double rap. — 

Knocks of this kind 
Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance ; 

By fiddlers, and by opera-singers : 
One loud, and then a little one behind, 

As if the knocker fell, by chance, 
Out of their fingers. 

The servant let him in with dismal face 
Long as a courtier's out of place — 

Portending some disaster : 
John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim, 
As if the apothecary had physick'd him, 

And not his master. 

"Well, how's the patient ?" Bolus said. 
John shook his head. 



COMIC PIECES. 117 

" Indeed ? — hum ! — ha ! — that's very odd, 
He took the draught ?" — John gave a nod ! 
** Well — how ? — what then ? — Speak out, you dunce ! 
14 Why then," says John, " we shook him once." 
u Shook him ! — how ?" Bolus stammer'd out. 

" We jolted him about." 
u Oh ! shake a patient, man — a shake won't do." 
u No, sir — and so we gave him two." 

" Two shakes ! — 'Twould make the patient worse." 
"It did so, sir — and so a third we tried." 
"Well, and what then !" — " Then, sir, my master died 1" 

Colman. 



THE RAZOR-SELLER. 

A fellow, in a market-town, 

Most musical cried razors up and down, 

And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence ; 
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, 
And, for the money, quite a heap, 

As every man would buy, with cash and sense. 

A country bumpkin the great offer heard : 

Poor Hodge ! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard, 

That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose, 
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, 
And proudly to himself, in whispers said, 

" This rascal stole the razors, I suppose! 

" No matter if the fellow be a knave, 
Provided that the razors shave : 

It sartinly will be a monstrous prize." 
So, home the clown, with his good fortune, went 
Smiling in heart and soul content, 

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. 

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, 
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, 

Just like a hedger cutting furze : 
'Twas a vile razor! — then the rest he tried — 
All were impostors — " Ah!" Hodge sigh'd, 

"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse I" 

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, 

He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp'd, and swore ; 

Brought blood and danced like mad, and made wry faces 
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er ! 



118 COMIC PIECES. 

His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff, 

Firm as old Hickory, would not lose its ruff; 

So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds : 
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, 
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clinch'd claws, 

On the vile cheat that sold the goods. 
"Razors! a confounded dog! 
Not fit to scrape a hog ! " 

Hodge sought the fellow — found him, and began— 
"Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, 

That people flay themselves out of their lives : 
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, 
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, 

With razors just like oyster-knives. 
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, 
To cry up razors that can't shave." 

"Friend," quoth the razor man, "I am no knave: 

As for the razors you have bought, 

Upon my word, I never thought 
That they would shave." 
" Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge with wondering eyes 

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; 
" What were they made for then, you dog ! " he cries. 

" Made ! " quoth the fellow, with a smile, — " to sell." 

Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcott). 



MODERN LOGIC, A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

An Eton stripling, training for the law, 

A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw, 

One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf 

His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf, 

With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, 

To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. 

Arrived, and past the usual " How d'ye do's," 

Inquiries of old friends, and college news, 

" Well Tom — the road what saw you worth discerning ? 

And how goes study, boy — what is't you're learning?" 

" Oh, logic, Sir — but not the worn-out rules 

Of Locke and Bacon — antiquated fools ! 

7 Tis wit and wranglers' logic — thus, d'ye see, 

I'll prove to you, as clear as A, B, C, 

That an eel-pie's a pigeon : — to deny it, 

Were to swear black's white." " Indeed!" "Let's try it. 

An eel-pie is a pie offish." " Well — agreed." 

"A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie." — "Yes, proceed." 



COMIC PIECES. 119 

11 A Jack-pie must be a John-pie — thus 'tis done, 

For every John-pie is a pi-ge-on ! " 

"Bravo !" Sir Peter cries, "logic for ever! 

That beats my grandmother — and she was clever! 

But hold, my boy, it surely would be hard 

That wit and learning should have no reward! 

To-morrow, for a stroll, the park well cross, 

And then I'll give you" — "What?" — " My chestnut-horse." 

"A horse!" cries Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces — 

Oh what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races ! " 

He went to bed, and wept for downright sorrow, 

To think the night must pass before the morrow ; 

Dreamed of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather breeches, 

Of leaping five-barred gates, and crossing ditches : 

Left his warm bed an hour before the Tark, 

Dragged his old uncle fasting through the park : — 

Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross, 

To find out something like a chestnut horse; 

But no such animal the meadows cropped : 

At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopped ; 

He took a bough — shook it — and down fell 

A fine horse chestnut in its prickly shell. 

"There, Tom— take that." "Well, Sir, and what beside?" 

"Why since you're booted — saddle it, and ride!" 

" Ride what ? — A chestnut ! " " Ay — come, get across — 

I tell you, Tom, that chestnut is a horse, 

And all the horse you'll get — for I can shew, 

As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so — 

Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules 

Of Locke and Bacon — addle-headed fools! 

All maxims but the wranglers' I disown,. 

And stick to one sound argument — your own. 

Since you have proved to me, I don't deny 

That a pie- John is the same as a John-pie ! 

What follows, then, but as a thing of course, 

That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse?" 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

It is customary in France, for children to find presents of toys and sugar- 
plums, in their stockings, on Christmas morning. On enquiring how 
they came there, the answer is, " St. Nicholas came down the chimney 
in the night, and left them for you." 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when, all through the house, 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse : 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 



120 COMIC PIECES, 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 

While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads j 

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap — 

When, out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter : 

Away to the window I flew, like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 

The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 

That I knew in a moment, it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name. 

" Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer ! now, Vixen I 

On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blixen 1 — 

To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 

Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" 

As leaves, that, before the wild hurricane, fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 

So, up to the house-top, the coursers they flew, 

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too ; 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound ; 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 

And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. 

His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples — how merry I 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow ; 

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. 

He had a broad face and a little round belly 

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump ; a right jolly old elf ; 

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. 

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 

And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 



COMIC PIECES. 121 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle, 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night \* 

C. 0. Moore. 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

u Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly ; 
u 'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. 
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, 
And I have many pretty things to shew when you are there." 
" Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain, 
For, who goes up your winding stair, can ne'er come down 
again." 

" I'm sure you must be weary, with soaring up so high, 
Will you rest upon my little bed ?" said the spider to the fly. 
u There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine 

and thin ; 
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." 
11 Oh no, no !" said the little fly, " for I've often heard it said, 
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed 1" 

Said the cunning spider to the fly, " Dear friend what shall I do, 
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you ? 

I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice ; 

I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take a slice?" 
" Oh no, no !" said the little fly, " kind sir, that cannot be, 
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see." 

II Sweet creature !" said the spider, " you're witty and you're 

wise, 
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your 

eyes! 
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, 
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold — yourself." 

II I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you're pleased to 

say. 
And bidding you good morning now; I'll call another day." 

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den, 
For well he knew, the silly fly would soon come back again : 
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly. 
And set his table ready, to dine upon the fly. 
Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing, 
" Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing : 

L 



122 COMIC PIECES. 

Your robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your 

head ; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as 

lead." 

Alas, alas ! how very soon this silly little fly, 
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by j 
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, 
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, her green and purple hue, 
And dreaming of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last 
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. 

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, 
Within his little parlour — but she ne'er came out again! 



And now, dear little children, who may this story hear, 
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give ear : 
To all deceitful councillors, close heart, and ear, and eye, 
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly. 

Mrs. Howitt. 



THE MOTLEY FOOL. 

A fool — a fool ! I met a fool i' th' forest, 

A motley fool ; — a miserable varlet ! — 

As I do live by food, I met a fool ; — 

Who laid him down, and basked him in the sun, 

And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms ; 

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. 

Good morrow, fool, quoth I : No, sir, quoth he, 

Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortune : 

And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 

And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 

Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock : 

Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags : 

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, 

And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ; 

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 

And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear 

The motley fool thus moral on the time, 

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 

That fools should be so deep-contemplative : 

And I did laugh, sans intermission, 

An hour by his dial. noble fool I 

A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. Shakspeare; 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



SYMPATHY WITH NATURE. 

My heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky ; 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now, I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The child is father of the man, 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. — Wordsworth. 



ASSOCIATION. 

When I say that the beauty of an object is made up in 
one's mind, of many associated feelings and ideas, it is 
not meant, that, at any one time, all these feelings exist 
either together or in immediate succession. It is sufficient 
that they have been, at any time, either separately or simulta- 
neously associated with the object which we call beautiful. 
Thus, let us suppose that a mother, a sister, or some one 
even dearer than either, had presented us with a rose ; 
this interesting circumstance becomes, ever afterwards, an 
ingredient of its beauty. It is not necessary, however, 
that, subsequently, we should particularly remember the 
occurrence when we see a rose, in order to feel, in its full 
force, the influence of its beauty. 

This principle, you will at once perceive, is of great 
importance in arriving at correct ideas on this subject. 
How innumerable are the circumstances which have con- 
tributed to give interest and beauty to the pleasing objects 
that have been familiar since childhood ! How many of 



124 MISCELLANEOUS. 

these circumstances have been forgotten ! The beautiful 
object maintains for ever its influence over our affections ; 
but, like a noble statue, whose maker is forgotten or un- 
known, it still bears the impress of the formative power — 
the stamp of the beautifying mind. The hand that 
chiselled the marble, has returned to dust ; the soul, that 
poured forth on it magnificent conceptions, has fled ; but 
the production of genius remains, to claim our admiration 
and affect our hearts. 

And now let me request you to think, for a moment, of 
some things that you esteem peculiarly dear — known in 
infancy — loved in childhood — remembered affectionately 
in youth — the brook, that flows near your home ; the tree, 
under whose shadow you have played, or among whose 
branches you have climbed or sat ; the green hill, where 
the Christmas gambols and the Easter festival were kept, 
where you met with your comrades in the gloaming, and 
ceased not your sport till the moon had risen, and the 
stars rejoiced around her throne; the tune, all simple and 
pathetic, which now melts your soul in the luxury of 
sadness, or rouses it, like the voice of a trumpet. — These, 
or such as these, the brook, the tree, the hill, and the tune, 
which you have known in childhood, must have great 
influence over your affections ; and yet, when you think of 
them, you will readily grant that your memory never can 
recall half of the associations, whose mysterious and shadowy 
influence flings witchery around them all. W. H. 



THE PRESENT ASPECT OF GREECE. 

He, who hath bent him o'er the dead, 

Ere the first day of death is fled — 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress — 

Before Decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, 

And mark'd the mild angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that's there — 

The fix'd, yet tender traits, that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek — 

And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 125 

That fires not — wins not — weeps not — now — 

And, but for that chill changeless brow, 

Whose touch thrills with mortality ; 

And curdles to the gazer's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, jet dwells upon— 

Yes — but for these — and these alone — 

Some moments — ay — one treacherous hour, 

He still might doubt the tyrant's power, 

So fair — so calm — so softly seal'd 

The first — last look — by death reveal'd ! 

Such is the aspect of this shore. 
'Tis Greece — but living Greece no more ! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
We start — for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
Bat beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue, which haunts it to the tomb — 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
The farewell beam of Feeling past away! 
Spark of that flame — perchance of heavenly birth — 
Which gleams — but warms no more its cherished earth! 

Byron. 



ON THE PLAIN OF MARATHON. 

Where'er we tread ; 'tis haunted, holy ground ! 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould 1 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing, to behold 
The scenes, our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, 
Defies the power, which crush'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon. 

The sun — the soil — but not the slave the same- 
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord, 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame: 
The Battle-field — where Persia's victim-horde • 

First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word — 
Which utter'd — to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp — the host — the fight — the conqueror's career. 



126 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The flying Mede — his shaftless broken bow ! 
The fiery Greek— his red pursuing spear ! 
Mountains above — Earth's — Ocean's plain below I 
Death in the front — Destruction in the rear ! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn — the violated mound — 
The dust— thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around ! 

Yet, to the remnants of thy splendour past, 
Shall pilgrims, pensive but unwearied, throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate, and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth I 
But he, whom sadness sootheth, may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 

Byron. 



ON THE BEAUTY OF THE ROSE. 

Flowers have ever been the favourite emblems of 
passion and feeling. The garden and the enamelled field, 
in the jubilee of spring, are bathed in a flood of beauty, 
which flows from the fountains of love and joy, and which 
gives, indeed, to all nature, at times, a universal charm. 
At the season, when the year breaks forth into life and 
greenness — when the rivers burst from their icebound 
caves, and sweep, from the mountains, along their verdant 
dominions — when the concert of happiness and love swells 
from every grove and glen, and the very clouds clothe 
themselves in glory — it is then that the blushing rose peeps 



MISCELLANEOUS. 127 

from her cell, and breathes her perfumes to the soft breezes 
of the South. 

The rose is not only beautiful in itself, but it blooms in 
the midst of beauty, — every sound of the garden around 
it is melody, from the slender note of the robin, and the 
sweet hum of the bee, to the full-throated music of the 
thrush. The gales, that fan the bosom of the rose, are 
loaded with fragrance borne from kindred flowers — the 
streamlet plays with the bank, on which the rose is planted 
— the apple blossom hangs over it, — and, last of all, the 
hands of the young, the loved, and the beautiful, protect 
it from every injury with constant care, and finally gather 
it to adorn the bosom. What wonder, then, is it, that the 
queen of flowers — the brightest daughter of June — the 
choicest ornament in the wreath, that decks the loveliest — 
should be considered as pre-eminently beautiful ? 

When we consider the flower itself, how exquisite is the 
skill displayed in the formation of every leaf; how sur- 
passing the goodness and bounty, that lavish on man, even 
for his recreation, such precious gifts as this ! Dull, 
indeed, were the mind, that could see a full-blown rose 
expanding in her summer pride ; that could feel itself 
regaled, through the organs of sense, with her delicious 
odours, and never mingle, with the wafted incense of the 
flower, the more grateful incense of devotion to God. Yes! 
These holy and elevated feelings throw an additional lustre 
round the beauty of the rose; and the purity and piety of 
religion are auxiliary to taste. The highest principles of 
our nature are brought into sympathy and union with 
the others, whose influence, in this case, I have already 
described ; and our admiration of the wisdom of God in 
forming, and the goodness of God in bestowing, even so 
minute a portion of his works as a flower, is added, as 
another circumstance, to the whole number of associations 
which constitute the beauty of a rose. W. H. 



128 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE THREE SONS. 

» 
I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, 
That my child is grave and wise of heart,beyond his childish years. 
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair ; 
And yet his chiefest comeliness, is his sweet and serious air; 
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, 
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency : 
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills 

his mind, 
The food for grave enquiring speech, he every where doth find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. 
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed 
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the 

next. 
He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to pray, 
And strange, and sweet, and solemn, then, are the words which 

he will say. 
Oh! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man, I trust that he will be ; 
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, 
How silvery sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my 

knee : 
• I do not think his light blue eye, is, like his brother's, keen; 
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been ; 
But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling, 
And his every look's a gleam of light,rich depths of love revealing. 
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the 

street 
Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, who looks so mild and 

sweet. 
A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, 
He'll sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love! 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 129 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, 
For they reckon not by years and months, where he is gone to 

dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, 
And then he bid farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. 
I cannot tell what form he has, what looks he weareth now, 
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. 
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things, which God will not reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh ; 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close, beneath their glittering wings, 
And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest 

things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be : 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's 

misery ; [pain, 

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and 
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. 

J. Moulteie. 



ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story ! ) 
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy, 
Thou hast a tongue — come, let us hear its tune ; 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy ! 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 

Tell us — for, doubtless thou canst recollect — 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
Of either Pyramid that bears his name ? 

M 



130 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat, 
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass ; 

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat, 

Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass, 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great Temple's dedication ? 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd, 
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled, 

For thou wast dead, and buried, and embalm'd, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended, 

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations j 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, 

The nature of thy rrivate life unfold : — 
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, 

And tears, adown that dusky cheek, have roll'd : — 
Have children climb'd those knees and kiss'd that face? 
What was thy name and station, age and race? 

Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecay'd within our presence, 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment-morning, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost for ever? 
let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure 

In living virtue, that, when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. Horace Smith. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 131 

ON NATIONAL MUSIC. 

Nothing contributes more effectually to keep alive the 
feelings of national pride, than the simple song of the 
olden time. If the singer be in earnest — if his eye kindle 
■with the memory of the ancient battle-field, if his voice 
swell triumphantly, as he refers to the glory of his native 
land, he attains his object — his hearers are suitably affected. 
The sentiments of the song, too, become associated with 
the sounds of the tune ; and, when the mere music is 
afterwards heard, a similar effect is produced. Generals, 
who are well acquainted with human nature, do not neglect 
to employ the aid of this power, when they wish to en- 
courage their soldiers in the hour of danger. Napoleon, 
when crossing the Alps with his army, frequently caused 
the bugles to sound a charge, when the men were sinking 
under fatigue, and almost unable to advance further. The 
martial music never failed to revive the^r drooping spirits, 
and excite them to renewed efforts. The renown of their 
leader — the chivalrous character of their native country — 
the expectation of speedy triumph, over their dangers, and 
over their enemies on the other side of the mountains — the 
thought of achieving an enterprise so magnificent and so 
new — all were suggested by the martial peal, as it rung 
among the Alpine rocks, and echoed through the steep 
defiles. It was the same principle that afterwards rendered 
the names of Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena, spell-words of 
victory. 

If we look to other countries we shall find equal effects 
produced by national music. The melting influence of the 
Ranz de vache on the Swiss, is almost proverbial. Hardy 
veterans were unmanned by it, and rendered soft as woman- 
hood. The soldier forgot to prize his honor, when the me- 
mory of his native hills and valleys — of his cottage and his 
family — came sadly before his mind. Though the moun- 
tains were a region of mist and thunder storms, yet there 
were green vales, where the limpid streams meandered 
through the meadow, and the golden grain ^aved brightly 
in the sunshine, where the flocks fed peacefully on the hill- 
side, and the shepherd chanted the song that unmanned 



132 MISCELLANEOUS. 

him. There he had grown from infancy to manhood — 
there he had hunted the chamois, and shot the eagle in his 
flight — and there he had seen the pass, where the Austrian 
banner was trampled by the free foot of the herdsman. 
No wonder that his soul was poured forth at his eyes, and 
his spirit sank within him. 

Such are national associations and such is their power ; 
but there are also private remembrances, which greatly in- 
fluence individuals. Who carolled to the young Swiss 
boy the hymn of his sacred home ? What loved lip 
quivered with emotion, as it breathed forth the notes ? 
What bright eye swam in tears of sensibility ? What cheek 
glowed — what bosom heaved with fervour, when the full 
chorus floated on the breeze ? The mountain valleys are 
all delightful, even to the eye of a stranger ; but there is 
one, which, for the native, possesses peculiar charms and 
superior fascination. It is that in which his parents or 
his wife and family, reside. There he heard it first, when 
it was sung beside his cradle ; and there he heard it last, 
when the war-trumpet called him from his home to the 
battle-field. W. H. 



THUNDER STORM AMONG THE ALPS. 

It is the hush of night; and all, between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen — 
Save darken' d Jura, whose capp'd heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar; 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ! 
At intervals, some bird, from out the brakes, 
Starts into voice a moment — then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill — 
But that is#fancy, for the star-light dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 133 

The sky is changed ! — and such a change I night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong! 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder! — not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue ; 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

And this is in the night: — Most glorious night 1 
Thou wast not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines ! — a phosphoric sea ! 
And the big rain eomes dancing to the earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between. 
Heights — which appear as lovers, who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of their fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then — departed!— 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years-— all winters ! — war within themselves to wage! 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus "hath cleft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand ! 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around! of all the band 
The brightest, through these parted hills, hath forked 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand 
That, in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 

Byron. 



THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED. 



"Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy 
infancy, and me in my old age; but, Jamie, forget not thou 
thy lather, nor thy mother; for that, thou knowest and 
faelest, is the eommaudment of God." 



134 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had 
gradually stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man : 
and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and 
dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother 
had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her 
hand. " Oh ! if my husband knew but of this — he would 
never, never desert his dying father I" And I now knew 
that the Elder was praying, on his death-bed, for a disobe- 
dient and wicked son. 

At this affecting time, the Minister took the Family- 
Bible on his knees, and said, " Let us sing to the praise 
and glory of God, part of the fifteenth psalm;" and he 
read, with a tremulous and broken voice, those beautiful 
verses : 

"Within thy tabernacle, Lord, 

Who shall abide with thee? 
And in thy high and holy hill, 

Who shall a dweller be? — 

u The man that walketh uprightly 

And worketh righteousness, 
And, as he thinketh in his heart, 

So doth he truth express." 

Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and 
a tall, fine-looking man entered, but with a lowering and 
dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and 
remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck by the 
melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, 
and looked, with a ghastly face, towards his father's bed. 
When the psalm ceased, the Elder said, with a solemn 
voice, " My son — thou art come in time to receive thy 
father's blessing. May the remembrance of what will hap- 
pen in this room, before the morning again shine over the 
Hazel glen, win thee from the error of thy ways ! Thou 
art here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour, 
whom thou hast forgotten." 

The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with an 
upbraiding countenance, on the young man who had not 
recovered his speech, and said, "William! for three years 
past your shadow has not darkened the door of the house 



MISCELLANEOUS. 135 

of God. They, who fear not the thunder, may tremble at 
the still small voice — Now is the hour for repentance — 
that your father's spirit may carry up to Heaven tidings 
of a contrite soul saved from the company of sinners!" 

The young man, with much effort, advanced to the bed- 
side, and at last found voice to say, " Father — I am not 
without the affections of nature — and I hurried h6me the 
moment I heard that the minister had been seen riding 
towards our house. I hope that you will yet recover ; and, 
if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forgiveness 
— for, though I may not think as you do on matters of 
religion, I have a human heart. Father ! I may have been 
unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your forgiveness." 

" Come near to me, William ; kneel down by the bed- 
side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved son — 
for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first- 
born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers 
and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside ner, whose 
sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble. 
Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my soul, — ay, too 
much the pride ! for there was not in all the parish such a 
man, such a son, as my own William. If thy heart has 
since been changed, God may inspire it again with right 
thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee — ay, William, 
when there was none near me — even as David wept for 
Absalom — for thee, my son, my son !" 

A long deep groan was the only reply ; but the whole 
body of the kneeling man was convulsed ; and it was easy 
to see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse, and his 
despair. The Pastor said, with a sterner voice, and aus- 
terer countenance than were natural to him, " Know you 
whose hand is now lying on your rebellious head ? But 
what signifies the word father to him, who has denied God, 
the Father of us all?" " Oh! press him not too hardly," 
said his weeping wife, coming forward from a dark corner 
of the room, where she tried to conceal herself in grief, 
fear, and shame. " Spare, oh ! spare my husband — he 
has ever been kind to me; " and, with that she knelt down 
beside him, with her long soft white arms mournfully and 
affectionately laid across his neck. " Go thou, likewise, 



136 MISCELLANEOUS. 

my sweet little Jamie/ ' said the Elder, "go, even out of 
my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy 
mother, so that I may bless you all at once, and with one 
yearning prayer." The child did as the solemn voice com- 
manded, and knelt down somewhat timidly by his father's 
side ; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with his 
arm, the child too much neglected, but still dear to him as 
his own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing 
influence of infidelity. 

" Put the word of God into the hands of my son, and 
let him read aloud to his dying father, the 25th, 26th, and 
27th verses of the eleventh chapter of the Gospel accord- 
ing to St. John." The Pastor went up to the kneelers, 
and, with a voice of pity, condolence, and pardon, said, 
" There was a time when none, William, could read the 
Scriptures better than couldst thou — can it be that the son 
of my friend hath forgotten the lessons of his youth ?" He 
had not forgotten them — There was no need for the repent- 
ant sinner to lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred 
stream of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and 
the waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he 
said, " Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and 
the life : And whosoever liveth, and believe th in me, shall 
never die. Believest thou this ? She said unto him, Yea, 
Lord : I believe thou art the Christ, the son of God, which 
should come into the world." 

" That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man, 
triumphantly; " nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's 
heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read, 
and thy father will die happy!" "I do believe; and as 
thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who 
is in heaven." The Elder seemed like a man suddenly 
inspired with a new life. His faded eyes kindled — his 
pale cheeks glowed- — his palsied hand seemed to wax strong 
— and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its prime. 
"Into thy hands, God! I commit my spirit;" and, so 
saying, he gently sunk back on his pillow ; and I thought 
I heard a sigh. — There was then a long deep silence; 
and the father, the mother, and the child, rose from their 
knees. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white 



MISCELLANEOUS. 137 

placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest ; 
and, without lamentations- -save the silent lamentation of 
the resigned soul— we stood around the Death-bed of 
the Elder. Wilson. 



THE OCEAN. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
There is society, where none intrudes 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews ; in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with thy shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own ; 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown! 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise, 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength, he wields 
For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

The armaments, which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals — 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war — 
These are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar, 



138 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ! their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now ! 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ! — in all time- 
Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime! 
The image of Eternity! — the throne 
Of the invisible ! Even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ! Each zone 
Obeys thee ! Thou goest forth, dread ! fathomless! alone! 

Byron. 



HARLEY'S DEATH. 

" There are some remembrances," said Harley, "which 
rise involuntarily on my heart, and make me almost wish 
to live. T have been blessed with a few friends, who re- 
deem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, with the tender- 
est emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have passed among 
them — but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be 
separated. There are some feelings which, perhaps, are too 
tender to be suffered by the world. The world, in gen- 
eral, is selfish, interested, and unthinking ; and throws the 
imputation of romance, or melancholy, on every temper 
more susceptible than its own. I cannot but think, in those 
regions which I contemplate, if there is anything of mor- 
tality left about us, that these feelings will subsist ; — they 
are called — perhaps they are — weaknesses, here ; — but 
there may be some better modifications of them in heaven, 
which may deserve the name of virtues." He sighed, as 
he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them, 
when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, leading in 
Miss Walton. "My dear," said she, u here is Miss Wal- 
ton, who has been so kind as to come and enquire for you 



MISCELLANEOUS. \ 139 

herself." I could perceive a transient glow upon his face. 
He rose from his seat. — " If to know Miss Walton's good- 
ness/' said he," be a title to deserve it, I have some claim." 
She begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on 
the sofa beside him. I took my leave. His aunt accom- 
panied me to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone, 
She inquired anxiously after his health. " I believe," said 
he, "from the accounts, which my physicians unwillingly 
give me, that they have no great hopes of my recovery." — 
She started, as he spoke ; but, recollecting herself imme- 
diately, endeavoured to natter him into a belief that his 
apprehensions were groundless. " I know," said he, " that it 
is usual with persons at my time of life, to have these hopes, 
which your kindness suggests ; but I would not wish to be 
deceived. To meet death as becomes a man, is a privi- 
lege bestowed on few : I would endeavour to make it mine : 
nor do I think, that I can ever be better prepared for it 
than now; —'tis that chiefly which determines the fitness 
of its approach." " Those sentiments," answered Miss 
Walton, " are just ; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will 
own, that life has its proper value. As the province of 
virtue, life is ennobled ; as such, it is to be desired. To 
virtue has the Supreme Director of all things assigned 
rewards enough, even here, to fix its attachments." 

The subject began to overpower her. Harley lifted up 
his eyes from the ground. " There are," said he, in a low 
voice — " there are attachments, Miss Walton." — His glance 
met hers — they both betrayed a confusion, and were both 
instantly withdrawn. — He paused some moments; — " I 
am," he said, "in such a state as calls for sincerity; let 
that alone excuse it — it is perhaps, the last time we shall 
ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn in the 
acknowledgment ; yet my heart swells to make it, awed as 
it is by*a sense of my presumption, — by a sense of your 
perfections." — He paused again — " Let it not offend you," 
he resumed, "to know their power over one so unworthy. 
My heart will, I believe, soon cease to beat even with that 
feeling, which it shall lose the latest. To love Miss Walton 
could not be a crime. If to declare it is one, the expiation 
will be made." Her tears were now flowing without con- 



140 MISCELLANEOUS. 

trol. " Let me entreat you/' said she, u to have better 
hopes — let not life be so indifferent to you ; if my wishes 
can put any value upon it — I will not pretend to misun- 
derstand you — I know your worth — I have long known it 
— I have esteemed it ; what would you have me say ? — 
I have loved it, as it deserved !" He seized her hand: — 
a languid colour reddened his cheek — a smile brightened 
faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her. it grew dim, it 
fixed, it closed — he sighed, and fell back on his seat. — 
Miss Walton screamed at the sight — his aunt and the ser- 
vants rushed into the room — they found them lying mo- 
tionless together. His physician happened to call at that 
instant : every art was tried to recover them ; with Miss 
Walton they succeeded ; but Harley was gone for ever ! 

Mackenzie. 



LIBERTY AND SLAVERY. 

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, still thou 
art a bitter draught ; and though thousands, in all ages, 
have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on 
that account. It is thou, Liberty ! thrice sweet and 
gracious goddess ! whom all, in public or in private, wor- 
ship ; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature 
herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy 
mantle, or chemic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With 
thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is 
happier than his monarch ; from whose court thou art 
exiled. Gracious Heaven ! grant me but health, thou 
great bestower of it ! and give me but this fair goddess as 
my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seem 
good unto thy divine Providence, upon those heads, which 
are aching for them ! 

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table ; 
and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to 
myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame 
for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow- 
creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery ; but finding, 
however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring 



MISCELLANEOUS. 141 

it near roe, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did 
but distract me — I took a single captive; and, having first 
shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the 
twilight of his grated door, to take his picture. 

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expecta- 
tion and confinement ; and felt what kind of sickness of 
the heart it is, which arises from hope deferred. Upon 
looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty 
years, the western breeze had not once fanned his blood — 
he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time — nor had 
the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. 
His children— but here my heart began to bleed — and I 
was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw in 
the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately 
his chair and bed. A little kalendar of small sticks was 
laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days 
and nights he had passed there. He had one of these 
little sticks in his hand ; and with a rusty nail, he was 
etching another day of misery, to add to the heap. As I 
darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye 
towards the door — then cast it down — shook his head — 
and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his 
chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little 
stick upon the bundle. — He gave a deep sigh — I saw the 
iron enter into his soul. — I burst into tears. — I could not 
sustain the picture of confinement, which my fancy had 
drawn. Sterne. 



ON THE PLEASURE OF PAINTING. 

To give one instance more, and then I will have done 
with this rambling discourse. One of my first attempts 
was a picture of my father, who was then in a green old 
age, with strongly marked features, and scarred with the 
small pox. I drew it with a broad light crossing the face, 
looking down, with spectacles on, reading. The book was 
Shaftesbury's Characteristics, in a fine old binding, with 
Gribelin's etchings. My father would as lief it had been 
any other book ; but for him to read was to be content — 



142 MISCELLANEOUS. 

was "riches fineless." The sketch promised well; and I 
set to work to finish it, determined to spare no time nor 
pains. My father was willing to sit as long as I pleased ; 
for there is a natural desire in the mind of man to sit for 
one's picture, to be the object of continued attention, to 
have one's likeness multiplied : and, besides his satisfaction 
in the picture, he had some pride in the artist — though he 
would rather I should have written a sermon, than painted 
like Rembrandt or like Raphael, Those winter days, 
with the gleams of sunshine coming through the chapel 
windows, and cheered by the notes of the robin-redbreast 
in our garden — that " ever in the haunch of winter sings" 
— as my afternoon's work drew to a close, were among the 
happiest of my life. When I gave the effect I intended 
to any part of the picture for which I had prepared my 
colours, when I imitated the roughness of the skin by a 
lucky stroke of the pencil, when I hit the clear pearly tone 
of a vein, when I gave the ruddy complexion of health — 
the blood circulating under the broad shadows of one side 
of the face — I thought my fortune made ; or rather, it 
was already more than made, in my fancying that I might 
one day be able to say with Corregio," "I also am a 
painter!" It was an idle thought, a boy's conceit; but it 
did not make me less happy at the time. I used regularly 
to set my work in the chair, to look at it through the long 
evenings ; and many a time did I return to take leave of 
it, before I could go to bed at night. I remember sending 
it with a throbbing heart to the exhibition, and seeing it 
hung up there by the side of one of the Honourable Mr. 
Skeffington (now Sir George). There was nothing in 
common between them, but that they were the portraits of 
two very good-natured men. I think, but am not sure, 
that I finished this portrait (or another afterwards) on the 
same day that the news of the battle of Austerlitz came. 
I walked out in the afternoon, and, as I returned, saw the 
evening-star set over a poor man's cottage, with other 
thoughts and feelings than I shall ever have again. Oh, 
for the revolution of the great Platonic year, that those 
times might come over again ! I could sleep out the 
three hundred and sixty-five thousand intervening years 



MISCELLANEOUS. 143 

very contentedly! — The picture is left; the table, the 
chair, the window where I learned to construe Livy, the 
chapel where my father preached, remain where they were ; 
but he himself is gone to rest, full of years, of faith, of hope, 
and charity. Hazlitt. 



THE IDIOT. 

A POOR widow, in a small town in the north of England, 
kept a booth, or stall, of apples and sweetmeats. She had 
an idiot child, so utterly helpless and dependent, that he 
did not appear to be ever alive to anger or self-defence. 
He sat all day at her feet, and seemed to be possessed of 
no other sentiment of the human kind, than confidence in 
his mother's love, and a dread of the schoolboys, by whom 
he was often annoyed. His whole occupation, as he sat 
on the ground, was in swinging backwards and forwards, 
singing " pal lal" in a low pathetic voice, only interrupted 
at intervals on the appearance of any of his tormentors, 
when he clung to his mother in alarm. From morning to 
evening he sung his plaintive and aimless ditty; at night 
when his poor mother gathered up her little wares to re- 
turn home, so deplorable did his defects appear, that, while 
she carried her table on her head, her stock of little mer- 
chandise in her lap, and her stool in one hand, she was 
obliged to lead him by the other. Ever and anon, as any 
of the schoolboys appeared in view, the harmless thing clung 
close to her, and hid his face in her bosom for protection. 
A human creature, so far below the standard of humanity, 
was nowhere ever seen : he had not even the shallow cun- 
ning, which is often found among these unfinished beings; 
and his simplicity could not even be measured by the stand- 
ard we would apply to the capacity of a lamb. Yet it had a 
feeling, rarely manifested even in the affectionate dog, and a 
knowledge, never shown by any mere animal. He was sen- 
sible of his mother's kindness and how much he owed to her 
care. At night, when she spread his humble pallet, though 
he knew not prayer, nor could comprehend the solemnities 
of worship, he prostrated himself at her feet ; and, as he kissed 



144 MISCELLANEOUS. 

them, mumbled a kind of mental orison, as if in fond 
and holy devotion. In the morning, before she went abroad 
to resume her station in the market-place, he peeped 
anxiously out to reconnoitre the street, and, as often as he 
saw any of the schoolboys in the way, he held her firmly 
back and sung his sorrowful " pal lal." 

One day the poor woman and her idiot boy were missed 
from the market-place ; and the charity of some of the neigh- 
bours induced them to visit her hovel. They found her 
dead on her sorry couch, and the boy sitting beside her, hold- 
ing her hand, swinging, and singing his pitiful lay more 
sorrowfully than he had ever done before. He could not 
speak, but only utter a brutish gabble; sometimes, however, 
he looked as if he comprehended something of what was said. 

On this occasion, when the neighbours spoke to him, he 
looked up with the tear in his eye ; and, clasping the cold 
hand more tenderly, sunk the strain of his mournful "pal-lal" 
into a softer and sadder key. The spectators, deeply 
affected, raised him from the body; and he surrendered 
his hold of the earthly hand without resistance, retiring 
in silence to an obscure corner of the room. One of them, 
looking towards the others, said to them, " Poor wretch ! 
what shall we do with him ?" At that moment, he resu- 
med his chant ; and lifting two handfuls of dust from the 
floor, sprinkled it on his head, and sung, with a wild and 
clear heart-piercing pathos, "pal-lal — pal-lal." 

Blackwood 1 s Magazine. 



ARNOLD WINKELRIED. 

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood ! 

A wall, where every conscious stone 

Seems to its kindred thousands grown ; 

A rampart all assaults to bear 

Till Time to dust their frames should wear ; 

Impregnable- their front appears 

All horrent with projected spears, 

Whose polished points before them shine, 

From flank to flank one brilliant line, 

Bright as the breakers' splendours run 

Along the billows to the sun. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 145 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 
Contended for their native land — 
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 
From manly necks the ignoble yoke, 
And forged their fetters into swords. 
On equal terms to fight their lords. 

Marshalled once more, at freedom's call, 
They came to conquer or to fall, 
Where he who conquered, he who fell, 
Was deemed a dead or living Tell. 

And now the work of life and death 
Hung on the passing of a breath ; 
The fire of conflict burned within, 
The battle trembled to begin : 
Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 
Point for attack was nowhere found ; 
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 
The unbroken line of lances blazed; 
That line 'twere suicide to meet, 
And perish at their tyrant's feet, — 
How could they rest within' their graves, 
And leave their homes the homes of slaves ? 
Would they not feel their children's tread 
With clanging chains above their head? 

It must not be : this day, this hour 
Annihilates the oppressor's power ; 
All Switzerland is in the field, 
She will not fly, she cannot yield — 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast ; 
But every freeman was a host, 
And felt as though himself were he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one indeed; 
Behold him, — Arnold Winkelried ! 
There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 
Unmarked he stood amid the throng, 
In rumination deep and long, 
Till you might see, with sudden grace, 
The very thought come o'er his face, 
And, by the motion of his form," 
Anticipate the bursting storm ; 
And, by the uplifting of his brow, 
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 
But 'twas no sooner thought than done, 
The field was in a moment won : 
N 



146 MISCELLANEOUS. 

11 Make way for liberty ! " he cried, 
Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 
Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 

" Make way for liberty !" he cried : 
Their keen points met from side to side : 
He bowed amidst them like a tree, 
And thus made way for Liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; 
11 Make way for liberty !" they cry, 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart: 
While, instantaneous as his fall, 
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all : 
An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free : 
Thus death made way for Liberty ! 

James Montgomery. 



THE STATUE OF THE DYING GLADIATOR. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow, 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. 

He heard it, but he heeded no* — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He recked not of the life he lost or prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, — 
There were his young barbarians all at play; 
There was their Dacian mother— he their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 
All this rushed with his blood — shall he expire 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 

Byron. 



ILLUSTEATIONS OF OEATOET. 



HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS. 

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronouuced it to you, trip- 
pingly on the tongue : but if you mouth it, as many of our 
players do, I had as lief the town-crier had spoke my lines. Do 
not saw the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all gently : 
for, in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) the whirlwind 
of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may 
give it smoothness. it offends me to the soul, to see a robustious 
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to 
split the ears of the groundlings ; who, for the most part, are 
capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise : 
I could have such a fellow whipped for o'er-doing termagant; 
it out-herods Herod : I pray you avoid it. 

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your 
tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with 
this special observance, that you overstep not the modesty of 
nature ; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of play- 
ing ; whose end is — to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to 
Nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, 
and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. 
Now, this overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskill- 
ful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of 
the which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole 
theatre of others. there be players, that I have seen play, 
and heard others praise, and that highly, and, not to speak it 
profanely, that, neither having the action of Christian, nor the 
gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, 
that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men 
and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 

Shakspeare. 



HAMLET ON THE SKILL OF THE PLAY ACTOR. 

Is it not monstrous, that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
Could force his soul so to his own conceit, 
That, from her working, all his visage warmed ; 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, 



148 ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 

With forms to his conceit ? And all for nothing f 

For Hecuba ! 

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 

That he should weep for her ? What would he do, 

Had he the motive and the cue for passion, 

That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears, 

And cleave the general air with horrid speech ; 

Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, 

Confound the ignorant ; and amaze, indeed, 

The very faculties of eyes and ears. Ibid, 






THE GOOD PREACHER AND THE CLERICAL COXCOMB. 

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, 
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, 
Paul should himself direct me : I would trace 
His master-strokes, and draw from his design. 
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
In doctrine, uncorrupt ; in language plain ; 
And plain in manner. Decent, solemn, chaste, 
And natural in gesture. Much impress'd 
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, 
And anxious, mainly, that the flock he feeds 
May feel it too. Affectionate in look, 
And tender in address, as well becomes 
A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
Behold the picture ! — is it like ? — like whom? 
The things, that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
And then — skip down again ? pronounce a text, 
Cry, hem ! and, reading what they never wrote 
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, 
And, with a well-bred whisper, close the scene? 

In man or woman — but far most in man, 
And most of all in man, that ministers, 
And serves the altar — in my soul I loathe 
All affectation : 'tis my perfect scorn ; 
Object of my implacable disgust. 
What ! will a man play tricks — will he indulge 
A silly, fond conceit of his fair form 
And just proportion, fashionable mien 
And pretty face, in presence of his God? 
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, 
As with the diamond on his lily hand ; 
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, 
When I am hungry for the bread of life ? 
He mocks his Maker ; prostitutes and shames 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 149 

His noble office ; and, instead of truth, 

Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock. 

Therefore, avaunt ! all attitude and stare, 

Aud start theatric, practised at the glass! 

I seek divine simplicity in him 

Who handles things divine ; and all beside, 

Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired 

By curious eves, and judgments ill-form'd, 

To me is odious. Cowper. 



AX EXHORTATION TO THE STUDY OF ELOQUENCE. 

I cannot conceive any thing more excellent, than to be 
able, by language, to captivate the affections, to charm the 
understanding, and to impel or restrain the will of whole 
assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free people, espe- 
cially in peaceful, settled governments, this single art has 
always eminently flourished, and always exercised the 
greatest sway. For what can be more surprising, than 
that, amidst an infinite multitude, one man should appear, 
who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of 
doing what Nature has put in every man's power ? Or, 
can any thing impart such exquisite pleasure to the ear, 
and to the intellect, as a speech in which the wisdom and 
dignity of the. sentiments, are heightened by the utmost 
force and beauty of expression ? Is there any thing so 
commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man 
should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences 
of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, further, can 
aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, 
as to assist the suppliant, to rear the prostrate, to commu- 
nicate happiness, to avert clanger, and to save a fellow- 
citizen from exile ? Can any thing be so necessary, as to 
keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may 
defend yourself, attack the profligate, and redress your 
own, or } T our country's wrongs ? 
r But let us consider this accomplishment as detached 
from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in 
popular assemblies, at the bar, and in the senate ; can any 
thing be more agreeable, or more endearing in private life, 
than elegant language? For, the great characteristic of 



150 ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 

our nature, and what eminently distinguishes us from 
brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of 
expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To 
excel mankind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent, 
which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is 
what every body must not only admire, but look upon as 
the just object of the most indefatigable pursuit. And 
now to mention the chief point of all, what other power 
could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the 
vagrant individuals of the human race ; to tame their 
savage manners ; to reconcile them to social life ; and, 
after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and 
constitutions for their government ? — Let me, in a few 
words, sum up this almost boundless subject. I lay it 
down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of 
an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the 
welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the 
whole state, must greatly depend. Therefore, young gen- 
tleman, go on : ply the study, in which you are engaged, 
for your own honour, the advantage of your friends, and 
the service of your country. Cicero. 



A SCHOOL-BOY'S FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF DEMOS- 
THENES. 

We had (if the plural dignity be accorded where a diminu- 
tive would seem more in place), after eight years' toil, been 
ascribed as was our due, to the highest class of Eton. 
Our studies were sublimed accordingly, and we found our- 
selves at once among the tl Dii majorum gentium," of whom 
Demosthenes was easily the chief, the thundering Jupiter, 
at least in our conceptions. We went forth, and, by virtue 
of an express order, obtained from the bookseller, who, 
strange to say, treated, or seemed to treat, that solemn 
application quite as a matter of course, some half dozen of 
the Olynthiacs and Philippics. We returned half over- 
powered with our own consciousness The sentiment of 
Demosthenes was indeed almost too much for the sense of 
our own unworthiness. Nevertheless, we reached our room, 
set our table in order, disposed every thing neatly, in way 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 151 

of preparation ; sat down, paused, opened the book, and 
read the first sentence reverentially, as something apocalyp- 
tic. The second, the third, and so on, through the first 
two or three pages. By that time, we felt at leisure to 
look about us, and to admire the condescension ot Demos- 
thenes in dealing so familiarly with his " 31 en of Athens." 
Surely, we thought, Grandeur should know itself — Dignity 
should be nothing less — Majesty should never walk abroad 
arrayed otherwise than majestically. A dozen pages more, 
and. as we laid clown the book, a thought escaped us — 
" Well, this is all very sensible, but where is the wonder 
of it?" We felt that Demosthenes, after all, was a much 
less awful personage than Dr. Keate, the head-teacher. He 
seemed a straightforward fellow, who spoke considerably 
to the purpose, and would have made a good chairman at 
quarter-sessions. Put the truth is, that we were not alto- 
gether unbiassed in our judgment. We felt that, to dero- 
gate from the dignity of Demosthenes, was to enhance our 
own ; that, as he was depressed, so, in the like proportion, 
were we elevated. For, had we not, only a week before, 
composed, aye, and recited in full assembly, a declamation, 
u horribly stuft with epithets," and immeasurably more 
grandiloquent than any thing that Demosthenes ever 
uttered? Cicero has asserted, and we may take the fact 
from him upon trust, that the great orator is the rarest of 
all human specimens, and withal the most exalted. For 
ourselves, then, we had given proof of what we actually 
were; but of our possible, nay, infallible, future height, 
who could take the measure of it ? Surely Demosthenes 
should have come to school to us. 

The short account of the matter is, that we judged as 
boys, boyishly. Indeed, to any raw intellect, whether of 
boy or man, the first impression from Demosthenes is likely 
to be that of disappointment ; for he oilers nothing to the 
judgment but sound strong food ; and this, children on the 
one hand, and men of depraved palates on the other, cannot 
well enjoy. He has his mark before him, and his eyes are 
always fixed on it, and never on anything else. He would 
no more think of swerving from his straight course for the 
sake of picking up and exhibiting something pretty, than a 



152 ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 

soldier would leave his line of march, in sight of the enemy, 
to pluck a flower from the hedge-side, and set off his uniform 
with it. Westminster Review. 



DEMOSTHENES BEFORE THE THEBAN COUNCIL, 
HARANGUING AGAINST PHILIP. 

The Thebans, from time immemorial, were in the enjoy- 
ment of a very comfortable reputation ; more comfortable, 
perhaps, in those fantastic times, than honourable — that of 
stupidity. They were altogether exempt from the incon- 
veniences of quick-wittedness, a quality which, as Thucydides 
and other grave writers and orators assure us, was perpetu- 
ally embroiling their neighbours and rivals, the Athenians. 
They were dwellers among fens and bogs, and it seems 
unreasonable to expect that their principles should have 
been purer than the air they breathed, or their national 
sentiment more elevated than their local habitation. Besides 
their stupidity, they were fortified with more than their 
due proportion of selfishness, and a spice of malignity withal, 
as is commonly the case with very dull people : and, as their 
selfishness was directly, so was their patriotism, in all that 
regarded Greece in general, inversely. They were content 
to hug their own interests, and make their own bargains 
apart, on each occasion : what concerned the Grecians 
collectively did not concern them. They had been the first 
to treat with Xerxes. They had sold their services to 
him, doubtless for a sufficient consideration. They had 
given him a free passage, furnished him with stores, 
marched with him, fought with him. — Indeed, they had 
already played the same part with Philip. Now, it seems 
that rhetoric could not be very easily brought to bear on 
such a people. To charm the deaf adder, would be a hope- 
ful enterprise, comparatively. But genius is a hopeful 
thing; and Demosthenes addressed himself to the task. 

Behold him in the council-room ! His adversaries, the 
ambassadors of Philip, have finished their address; they 
have set forth the mighty resources of their master, the 
madness of resistance to him, the advantages of his alliance. 
Their task is an easy one. They have prejudice and selfish- 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 153 

ness on their side. They see that their highest demands, 
their most eager wishes, are anticipated by the concurrence 
of their auditors. They sit down in security. He rises 
to answer them. 

The collective wisdom, the senators of Thebes, dispose 
themselves to hear him. But is it really he ? The mighty 
master of words, thewielder of the democracy, the consum- 
mate rhetorician ? Where then are his tropes and figures ? 
How is it that he has brought us nothing but simple truths, 
and left all his artifices behind him ? He has uttered but 
half-a-dozen sentences, and already is he grappling with 
the main body of his subject. This is strange. Their 
curiosity becomes earnestness. They look about them 
for a moment, and their attention is riveted on him once 
and for all. Sentence upon sentence the speaker strikes 
home. His strokes tell. The metal, so cold but even 
now, is warmed through. The warmth becomes heat. It is 
hot, red-hot. It burns vividly. It is all over in a glow. He 
sees that they are at the right temper. He works and 
welds them at his will. But a few strokes more, and he 
has made of that dull metal a meet and high- wrought 
instrument — a sword of proof — aye, and more — he has 
carried home that sword in triumph, and has armed with 
it his countrymen, defenceless else, but now terribly furnished 
for their warfare, Often before had he stimulated the 
public spirit of the Athenians ; but this was little, compara- 
tively — he has now created that of the Thebans. Truly 
his triumph over Python is as full of high sentiment and 
as godlike as that of Apollo himself, though it live not yet 
in sculpture, Westminster Review. 



THE BLIND PREACHER, 

It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county 
of Orange, in Virginia, that my eye was caught by a 
cluster of horses, tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house, 
in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having fre- 
quently seen such objects before, in travelling through 
these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this 
was a place of religious worship. 

o 



154 ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 

Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the 
duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curi- 
osity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not 
the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with 
his preternatural appearance. He was a tall, and a very 
Spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white 
linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all 
shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments 
ascertained to me, that he was perfectly blind. * 

The first emotions which touched my breast, were those 
of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all 
my feelings changed ! The lips of Platof were never more 
worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips 
of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of 
the sacrament ; and his subject, of course, was the passion 
of our Saviour. I had heard the topic handled a thousand 
times : I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I 
suppose, that in the wild woods of America, I was to meet 
with a man, whose eloquence would give to this theme a new 
and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 

As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mys- 
tic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human 
solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood 
run cold, and my whole frame shiver. 

He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; 
his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary; his crucifix- 
ion ; and his death. I knew the whole history ; but never, 
until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so 
arranged, so coloured ! It was all new : and I seemed to 
have heard it for the first time in my life. His enuncia- 
tion was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syl- 
lable ; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. 
His peculiar phrases had such force of description, that the 
original scene appeared to be, at the moment, acting before 
our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews : the staring, 
frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet : 



* His name was Wad dell. He was a native of the North of Ireland. 

t It is said that, when this philosopher was an infant, a swarm of 
bees alighted on his lips, indicating the honeyed sweetness of the elo- 
quence, that afterwards flowed from them. 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 155 

my soul kindled with a flame of indignation ; and my hands 
were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. 

But, when he came to touch on the patience, the for- 
giving meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the 
life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice 
breathing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his 
enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do" — the voice of the preacher, which had all along 
faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until his utterance being 
entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised 
his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and 
irrepressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable. 
The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and 
sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. 

It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so 
far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the 
usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began 
to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For 
I could not conceive, how he would be able to let his 
audience down from the height, to which he had wound 
them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his 
subject, or, perhaps, shocking them by the abruptness of 
the fall. But — no : the descent was as beautiful and sub- 
lime, as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. 

The first sentence, with which he broke the awful 
silence, was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died 
like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God I" 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect, produced 
by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive 
the whole manner # of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis 
in the discourse. Never before did I completely under- 
stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on 
delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure 
of the preacher : his blindness, constantly recalling to your 
recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and, associat- 
ing with his peformance, the melancholy grandeur of their 
genius ; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, 
solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affect- 
ing, trembling, melody ; you are to remember the pitch of 
passion and enthusiasm, to which the congregation were 



156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF ORATORY. 

raised ; and then, the few minutes of portentous, death- 
like silence, which reigned throughout the house : the 
preacher, removing the white handkerchief from his aged 
face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears), 
and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds 
it, begins the sentence : " Socrates died like a philosopher " 
— then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them 
both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his 
breast, lifting up his " sightless balls" to heaven, and 
pouring his whoJe soul into his tremulous voice — " but 
Jesus Christ — like a GrOD [" If he had been, indeed and 
in truth, an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have 
been more divine. Wirt. 



PANEGYRIC ON THE ELOQUENCE OF SHERIDAN. 

He has this day surprised the thousands who hung with 
rapture on his accents, by such an array of talents, such 
an exhibition of capacity, such a display of powers, as are 
unparalleled in the annals of oratory ; a display that 
reflected the highest honour on himself — lustre upon 
letters — renown upon parliament — glory upon the country. 
Of all species of rhetoric, of every kind of eloquence 
that has been witnessed or recorded, either in ancient or 
modern times ; whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dig- 
nity of the senate, the solidity of the judgment-seat, and 
the sacred morality of the pulpit, have hitherto furnished ; 
nothing has equalled what we have this day heard. No 
holy seer of religion, no statesman, no orator, no man of 
any literary description whatever, has come up, in the one 
instance, to the pure sentiments of morality ; or, in the 
other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagination, 
propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance of 
diction, strength and copiousness of style, pathos and 
sublimity of conception, to which we, this day, listened 
with ardour and admiration. From poetry up to eloquence, 
there is not a species of composition, of which a complete 
and perfect specimen might not, from that single speech, 
be culled and collected. Burke. 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 



SPEECH OF JUDAH BEFORE JOSEPH. 

Then Judah came near unto him, and said, my lord, 
let thy servant, I pray thee, speak a word in my lord's ears, 
and let not thine anger burn against thy servant; for thou 
art even as Pharaoh. My lord asked his servants, saying, 
Have ye a father, or a brother ? And we said unto my 
lord. We have a father, an old man, and a child of his 
old age, a little one; and his brother is dead, and he alone 
is left of his mother, and his father loveth him. And thou 
saidst unto thy servants, Bring him down unto me, that I 
may set mine eyes upon him : and we said unto my lord, 
The lad cannot leave his father, for, if he should leave his 
father, his father should die : and thou saidst unto thy ser- 
vants, Except your youngest brother come down with you, 
ye shall see my face no more. And it came to pass, when 
we came up unto thy servant my father, we told him the 
words of my lord. And our father said, Go again, and buy 
us a little food : and we said, We cannot go down ; if our 
youngest brother be with us, then will we go down, for we 
may not see the man's face except our youngest brother be 
with us. And thy servant my father said unto us, Ye 
know that my wife bare me two sons ; and the one went 
out from me, and I said, Surely he is torn in pieces — and I 
saw him not since : and if ye take this also from me, and 
mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my grey hairs with 
sorrow to the grave. Now therefore when I come to thy 
servant my father, and the lad be not with us — seeing that 
his life is bound up in the lad's life — it shall come to pass, 
when he seeth that the lad is not with us, that he will die ; 
and thy servants shall bring down the grey hairs of thy 
servant our father with sorrow to the grave ; for thy servant 
became surety for the lad unto my father, saying, If I bring 



158 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

him not unto thee, then I shall bear the blame to my father 
for ever. Now, therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant abide, 
instead of the lad, a bondman to my lord, and let the lad 
go up with his brethren ; for how shall I go up to my father, 
and the lad be not with me ? lest, peradventure, I see the 
evil that shall come on my father. 



NATHAN'S ADDRESS TO DAVID. 

And the Lord sent Nathan unto David ; and he came 
unto him, and said unto him, There were two men in one 
city, the one rich and the other poor. The rich man had ex- 
ceeding many flocks and herds; but the poor man had 
nothing, save one little ewe lamb, which he had bought and 
nourished up ; and it grew up together with him and with 
his children ; it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his 
own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a 
daughter. And there came a traveller unto the rich nian, 
and he spared to take of his own flock and of his own 
herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was come unto 
him; but took the poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the 
man that was come to him. 

And David's anger was greatly kindled against the man ; 
and he said to Nathan, As the Lord liveth, the man that 
hath done these things shall surely die; and he shall restore 
the lamb four-fold, because he did this thing, and because 
he had no pity. 

And Nathan said to David, Thou art the man ! Thou 
hast killed Uriah the Hittite with the sword, and hast taken 
his wife to be thy wife, and hast slain him with the sword 
of the children of Ammon ; now, therefore, the sword shall 
never depart from thine house ; because thou hast despised 
me, and hast taken the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be thy 
wife. 



EXTRACTS FROM THE SPEECH OF DEMOSTHENES 
TO THE ATHENIANS, AGAINST PHILIP. 

When I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some 
amongst us with their actions, I am at a loss to reconcile 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE.- 159 

what I see with what I hear. Their protestations are full 
of zeal against the public enemy; but their measures are 
so inconsistent, that all their professions become suspected. 
By confounding you with a variety of projects, they per- 
plex your resolutions ; and lead you from executing what 
is in your power, by engaging you in schemes not reducible 
to practice. 

'Tis true, there was a time when we were powerful 
enough, not only to defend our own borders, and protect 
our allies, but even to invade Philip in his own dominions. 
Yes, Athenians, there was such a juncture — I remember 
it well. But, by neglect of proper opportunities, we are 
no longer in a situation to be invaders. It will be well 
for us, if we can provide for our own defence, and our 
allies. Never did any conjuncture require so much pru- 
dence as this. However, I should not despair of season- 
able remedies, had I the art to prevail with you to be 
unanimous in right measures. The opportunities, which 
have so often escaped us, have not been lost through 
ignorance, or want of judgment, but through negligence 
or treachery. If I assume, at this time, more than ordinary 
liberty of speech, I conjure you to suffer patiently those 
truths, which have no other end but your own good. You 
have too many reasons to be sensible how much you have 
suffered by hearkening to sycophants. I shall, therefore, 
be plain in laying before you the grounds of past mis- 
carriages, in order to correct you in your future conduct. 

You may remember, it is not above three or four years, 
since we had the news t)f Philip's laying siege to the fort- 
ress of Juno, in Thrace. It was, as I think, in October 
we received this intelligence. We voted an immediate 
supply of threescore talents ; forty men-of-war were ordered 
to sea ; and so zealous we were, that, preferring the neces- 
sities of state to our very laws, our citizens, above the age 
of five and forty years, were commanded to serve. What 
followed ? — A whole year was spent idly without 

ANY THING BEING DONE J AND IT WAS BUT IN THE 
THIRD MONTH OF THE FOLLOWING YEAR, A LITTLE 
AFTER THE CELEBRATION OF THE FEAST. OF CERES, 
THAT CHARADEMUS SET SAIL, FURNISHED WITH NO 



160 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

MORE THAN FIVE TALENTS, AND TEN GALLEYS NOT 
HALF MANNED. 

A rumour was spread, that Philip, was sick. That 
rumour was followed by another, that Philip was dead ; 
and, then, as if all danger died with him, you dropped 
your preparations : whereas, then — then was your time 
to push and be active ; then was the time to secure your- 
selves, and confound him at once. Had your resolutions, 
taken with so much heat, been as warmly seconded by 
action, you had been then as terrible to Philip, as Philip, 
recovered, is now to you. — " To what purpose, at this time, 
these reflections ? What is done, cannot be undone/' — 
But, by your leave, Athenians, though past moments are 
not to be recalled, past errors may be retrieved, Have we 
not, now, a fresh provocation to war ? Let the memory 
of oversights, by which you have suffered so much, instruct 
you to be more vigilant in the present danger. If the 

OlYNTHIANS ARE NOT INSTANTLY SUCCOURED, AND WITH 

your utmost efforts, you become assistants to 
Philip, and serve him more effectually 5:han he 
can help himself. 

It is not, surely, necessary to warn you, that votes alone 
can be of no consequence. Had your resolutions, of them- 
selves, the virtue to compass what you intend, we should 
not see them multiply every day, as they do, and upon 
every occasion with so little effect,' nor would Philip be 
in a condition to brave and affront us in this manner. 
Proceed, then, Athenians, to supp&rt your deliberations 
with vigour. You have heads capable of advising what 
is best; and you have power and opportunity to exe- 
cute what you determine. What time so proper for 
action ? what occasion so happy? and when can you hope 
for such another, if this be neglected ? Has not Philip, 
contrary to all treaties, insulted you in Thrace ? Does he 
not, at this instant, straiten and invade your confederates, 
whom you have solemnly sworn to protect ? Is he not an 

IMPLACABLE ENEMY — A FAITHLESS ALLY — THE USURPER 
OF PROVINCES, TO WHICH HE HAS NO TITLE NOR PRE- 
TENCE — A STRANGER, A BARBARIAN, A TYRANT ? AND, 
INDEED, WHAT IS HE NOT ? 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 161 

Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different 
your conduct appears from the practices of your ancestors : 
they were friends to truth and pi an dealing, and detested 
flattery and servile compliance. By unanimous consent, 
they continued arbiters of all Greece, for the space of 
forty-five years without interruption. A public fund, of 
no less than ten thousand talents, was ready for any emer- 
gency. They exercised over the kings of Macedon, that 
authority which is due to barbarians ; obtained, both by 
sea and land, in their own persons, frequent and signal 
victories ; and, by their noble exploits, transmitted to pos- 
terity an immortal memory of their virtue, superior to the 
reach of malice and detraction. It is to them we owe 
that great number of public edifices, by which the city of 
Athens exceeds all the rest of the world in beauty and 
magnificence. It is to them we owe so many stately 
temples, so richly embellished, but, above all, adorned with 
the spoils of vanquished enemies. But, visit their own 
private habitations; visit the houses of Aristides, Miltlades, 
or any other of those patriots of antiquity — you will find 
nothing, not the least mark or ornament, to distinguish 
them from their neighbours. They took part in the 
government, not to enrich themselves, but the public; 
they had no scheme or ambition, but for the public ; nor 
knew any interest, but the public. It was by a close and 
steady application to the general good of their country, by 
an exemplary piety towards the immortal gods, by a strict 
faith and religious honesty betwixt man and man, and a 
moderation always uniform and of a piece, that they estab- 
lished a reputation, which remains to this day, and will 
last to utmost posterity. 

Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from your lethargy, 
you would assume the ancient freedom and spirit of your 
fathers — if you would be your own soldiers and your own 
commanders, confiding your affairs no longer to foreign or 
mercenary hands — if you would charge yourselves with 
your own defence ; employing abroad, for the public, what 
you waste in unprofitable pleasures at home — the world 
might, once more, behold you making a figure worthy of 
Athenians. — "You would have us, then/' you say, "do 



162 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

service in our armies in our own persons; and, for so 
doing, you would have the pensions we receive in time of 
peace, accepted as pay in time of war. Is it thus we 
are to understand you ?" — Yes, Athenians, 'tis my plain 
meaning. I would make it a standing rule, that no per- 
son, great or little, should be the better for the public 
money, who should grudge to employ it for the public 
service. Are we in peace ? — the public is charged with 
your subsistence. Are we in war, or under a necessity, as at 
this time, to enter into a war ? — let your gratitude oblige 
you to accept as pay, in defence of your benefactors, what 
you receive, in peace, as mere bounty. Thus, without any 
innovation — without altering or abolishing any thing, but 
pernicious novelties, introduced for the encouragement of 
sloth and idleness ; by only converting for the future, the 
same funds, to the use of the serviceable, which are spent, 
at present, upon the unprofitable ; you may be well served 
in your armies, your troops regularly paid, justice duly 
administered, the public revenues reformed and increased, 
and every member of the commonwealth rendered useful 
to the country, according to his age and ability, without 
any further burden to the state. 

This, men of Athens ! is what my duty prompted me 
to represent to you upon this occasion. — May the gods 
inspire you to determine upon such measures as may be 
most expedient for the particular and general good of our 
country ! 

A FINE PERSONIFICATION. 

Go to your Natural Religion ; lay before her Mahomet 
and his disciples, arrayed in armour and blood, riding in 
triumph over the spoils of thousands who fell by his 
victorious sword. Shew her the cities he set in flames, 
the countries he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable 
distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has 
viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirement; 
shew her the prophet's chamber, his concubines and his 
wives ; and let her hear him allege revelation and a divine 
commission, to justify his adultery and lust. When she 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 163 

is tired with this prospect, then shew her the blessed Jesus, 
humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let 
her see him in his most retired privacies; let her follow 
him to the mount, and hear his devotions and supplications 
to God. Carry her to his table, to view his poor fare, and 
hear his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to the 
tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured 
the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his 
cross ; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his 
last prayer for his persecutors — Father, forgive them, 
for they know not what they do ! When Natural 
Religion has thus viewed both, ask her, Which is the pro- 
phet of God ? — But her answer we have already had, when 
she saw part of this scene through the eyes of the centurion 
who attended at the cross. By him she spake and said, 
Truly this man was the Son of God. 

Bishop Sherlock. 



ON THE THREATENED INVASION OF ENGLAND 
IN 1803. 

By a series of criminal enterprises, by the success of 
guilty ambition, the liberties of Europe have been grad- 
ually extinguished. The subjugation of Holland, Swit- 
zerland, and the free towns of Germany, has completed 
that catastrophe ; and we are the only people in the east- 
ern hemisphere, who are in possession of equal laws, and 
a free constitution. Freedom, driven from every spot on 
the Continent, has sought an asylum in a country which 
she always chose for her favourite abode : but she is pur- 
sued even here, and threatened with destruction. The 
inundation of lawless power, after covering the whole earth, 
threatens to follow us here ; and we are most exactly, most 
critically placed in the only aperture where it can be suc- 
cessfully repelled — in the Thermopylae of the world. As 
far as the interests of freedom are concerned — the most 
important by far of sublunary interests 1 — you, my coun- 
trymen, stand in the capacity of the federal representatives 
of the human race ; for with you it is to determine — under 
God — in what condition the latest posterity shall be born. 



164 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

Their fortunes are entrusted to your care; and on your 
conduct, at this moment, depends the colour and com- 
plexion of their destiny. If liberty, after being extin- 
guished on the Continent, is suffered to expire here ; 
whence is it ever to emerge in the midst of that thick 
night, that will invest it ? It remains with you, then, to 
decide, whether that freedom, at whose voice the kingdoms 
of Europe awoke from the sleep of ages, to run a career of 
virtuous emulation in everything great and good; the 
freedom, which dispelled the mists of superstition, and 
invited the nations to behold their God; whose magic 
torch kindled the rays of genius, the enthusiasm of poetry, 
and the flame of eloquence — the freedom, which poured 
into our lap opulence and arts, and embellished life with 
innumerable institutions and improvements, till it became 
a theatre of wonders — it is for you to decide, whether this 
freedom shall yet survive, or be covered with a funeral 
pall, and wrapped in eternal gloom. It is not necessary 
to await your determination. In the solicitude you feel 
to approve yourselves worthy of such a trust, every thought 
of what is afflicting in warfare, every apprehension of dan- 
ger, must vanish ; and you are impatient to mingle in the 
battle of the civilized world. Go, then, ye defenders of 
your country, accompanied with every auspicious omen ; 
advance with alacrity into the field, where God himself 
musters the host to war. Religion is too much interested 
in your success, not to lend you her aid. She will shed 
over this enterprise her selectest influence. While you 
are engaged in the field, many will repair to the closet — 
many to the sanctuary. The faithful of every name will 
employ that prayer, which has power with God. The fee- 
ble hands, which are unequal to any other weapon, will 
grasp the sword of the Spirit ; and, from myriads of humble 
contrite hearts, the voice of intercession, supplication, and 
weeping, will mingle in its ascent to heaven, with the 
shouts of battle, and the shock of arms. The extent of 
your resources, under God, is equal to the justice of your 
cause. But, should Providence determine otherwise, should 
you fall in this struggle, should the nation fall — you will 
have the satisfaction — the purest allotted to man— of hav- 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 165 

ing performed your part; your names will be enrolled with 
the most illustrious dead, while posterity, to the end of 
time, as often as they revolve the events of this period — 
and they will incessantly revolve them — will turn to you a 
reverential eye, while they fnourn over the freedom, which 
is entombed in your sepulchre. I cannot but imagine, 
that the virtuous heroes, legislators, and patriots of every 
age and country, are bending from their elevated seats to 
witness this contest, as if they were incapable, till it be 
brought to a favourable issue, of enjoying their eternal 
repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious immortals ! Your 
mantle fell when you ascended ; and thousands, inflamed 
with your spirit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are 
ready to swear by Him that sitteth upon the throne, and 
liveth for ever and ever, that they will protect freedom in 
her last asylum, and never desert that cause, which you 
sustained by your labours, and cemented with your blood. 
And thou, sole Ruler of the children of men, to whom the 
shields of the earth belong, gird on thy sword, thou Most 
Mighty ! Go forth with our hosts in the day of battle ! 
Impart, in addition to their hereditary valour, that confi- 
dence of success, which springs from thy presence ! Pour 
into their hearts the spirits of departed heroes ! Inspire 
them with their own ; and, while led by thy hand, and 
fighting under thy banners, open thou their eyes to behold 
in every valley, and in every plain, what the prophet beheld 
by the same illumination — chariots of fire, and horses of 
fire ! Then shall the strong man be as tow, and the maker 
of it as a spark ; and they shall both burn together, and 
none shall quench them. Robert Hall. 



SPIRIT OF BRITISH FREEDOM. 

I speak in the spirit of the British law, which makes 
liberty commensurate with, and inseparable from, British 
soil ; which proclaims, even to the stranger and sojourner, 
the moment he sets his foot on British earth, that the 
ground, on which he treads, is holy, and consecrated by the 
genius of Universal Emancipation. No matter in what 
language his doom may have been pronounced ; — no matter 



166 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

•what complexion, incompatible with freedom, an Indian or 
an African sun may have burned upon him ; — no matter 
in what disastrous battle his liberty may have been cloven 
down ; —no matter with what solemnities he may have been 
devoted upon the altar of slavery; the first moment he 
touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god 
sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her 
own majesty ; his body swells beyond the measure of his 
chains, that burst from around him ; and he stands 
redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible 
genius of Universal Emancipation. Curran. 



CHRIST'S AGONY. 

Christians ! what an hour was that, which our Saviour 
passed in the garden of Gethsemane ! In the time of his 
passion, his torments succeeded one another. He was not 
at the same time betrayed, mocked, scourged, crowned with 
thorns, pierced with a spear, extended on the cross, and 
forsaken by his Father : but here all these torments rose 
before him at once ; all his pains were united together ; 
what he was to endure in succession, now crowded into one 
moment, and his soul was overcome. At this time, too, the 
powers of darkness, it should seem, were permitted to work 
upon his imagination, to disturb his spirit, and make the 
vale through which he was to pass, appear more dark and 
gloomy. 

Add to this, that our Saviour having now come to the 
close of his public life, his whole mediatorial undertaking 
presented itself to his view, his eye ran over the history 
of that race which he came to save, from the beginning to the 
end of time. He had a feeling of all the misery, and a 
sense of all the guilt of men. If he looked back into past 
times, what did he behold ? — The earth a field of blood, a 
vale of tears, a theatre of crimes. If he cast his eyes upon 
that one in which he lived, what did he behold ? — The 
nation, to whom he was sent, rejecting the counsel of God 
against themselves, imprecating his blood to be upon them 
and their children, and bringing upon themselves such a 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 167 

desolation as has not happened to any other people. When 
he looked forward to succeeding ages, what did he behold ? 
— He saw, that the wickedness of men was to continue. and 
abound, to erect a Golgotha in every age, and, by obstinate 
impenitence, to crucify afresh the Son of God ; — he saw, 
that, in his blessed name, and under the banners of his 
cross, the most atrocious crimes were to be committed, the 
sword of persecution to be drawn, the best blood of the 
earth to be shed, and the noblest spirits that ever graced the 
world to be cut off; — he saw, that, for many of the human 
race, all the efforts of saving mercy were to be defeated ; 
that his death was to be of no avail, that his blood was to 
be shed in vain, that his agonies were to be lost, and that 
it had been happy for them if he had never been born ; — he 
saw, that he was to be wounded in the house of his friends, 
that his name was to be blasphemed among his followers, 
that he was to be dishonoured by the wicke$ lives of those 
who called themselves his disciples, that one man was to 
prefer the gains of iniquity, another the blandishments of 
pleasure, a third the indulgence of malicious desire, and all 
of you, at times, the gratification of your favourite passion 
— to the tender mercies of the God of peace, and the dying 
love of a crucified Redeemer. While the hour revolved 
that spread forth all these things before his eyes, we need 
not wonder that he began to be in agony, and that he 
sweated, as it were, great drops of blood. Logan. 



THE PLURALITY OF WORLDS NOT AN ARGUMENT 
AGAINST THE TRUTH OF REVELATION. 

Keep all 'this in view, and you cannot fail to perceive 
how the principle, so finely and so copiously illustrated in 
this chapter, may be brought to meet the infidelity we have 
thus long been employed in combating. It was nature — and 
the experience of every bosom will affirm it — it was nature 
in the shepherd, to leave the ninety and nine of his flock 
forgotten and alone in the wilderness, and, betaking him- 
self to the mountains, to give all his labour and all his 
concern, to the pursuit of one solitary wanderer. It was 
nature — and we are told, in the passage before us, that it 



168 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

is such a portion of nature as belongs not merely to men, 
but to angels — when the woman, with her mind in the 
state of listlessness as to the nine pieces of silver that were 
in secure custody, turned the whole force of her anxiety to 
the one piece which she had lost, and for which she had to 
light a candle, and to sweep the bouse, to search diligently 
until she found it. It was nature in her to rejoice more 
over that piece, than over all the rest of them ; and to tell 
it abroad among friends and neighbours, that they might 
rejoice along with her. And, sadly effaced as humanity is 
in all her original lineaments, this is a part of our nature, 
the very movements of which are experienced in heaven, 
" where there is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, 
than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repen- 
tance. " For any thing I know, every planet that rolls in 
the immensity around me, may be a land of righteousness, 
and be a member of the household of God : and have her 
secure dwelling within the ample limit, which embraces his 
great and universal family : But I know at least of one 
wanderer ; and how wofully she has strayed from peace and 
from purity ; and how, in dreary alienation from him who 
made her, she has bewildered herself amongst those many 
devious tracks, which have carried her afar from the path 
of immortality ; and how sadly tarnished all those beauties 
and felicities are, which promised, on that morning of her 
existence when God looked on her, and saw that all was 
very good — which promised so richly to bless and to adorn 
her, and how, in the eye of the whole unfallen creation, she 
has renounced all this goodliness, and is fast departing 
away from them into guilt, and wretchedness, and shame. 
Oh ! if there be any truth in this chapter, and^ any sweet or 
touching nature in the principle, which runs throughout 
all its parables, let us cease to wonder, though they who 
surround the throne of love should be looking so intently 
towards us — or though, in the way by which they have 
singled us out, all the other orbs of space should, for one 
short season, on the scale of eternity, appear to be forgot- 
ten—or though, for every step of her recovery, and for 
every individual, who is rendered back again to the fold, 
from which he was separated, another and another message 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 169 

of triumph should be made to circulate amongst the hosts 
of paradise — or though, lost as we are, and sunk in depravity 
as we are, all the sympathies of heaven should now be 
awake on the enterprise of hini who has travailed, in the 
greatness of his strength, to seek and to save us. 

Chalmers. 



THE RESTLESSNESS OF HUMAN AMBITION. 

" How say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain?" — O that I 
had wings iike a' dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest." — 
Psalm xi. 1, and 1y. 6. 

To all those who are conversant with the scenery of ex- 
ternal nature, it is evident, that an object, to be seen to 
the greatest advantage, must be placed at a certain distance 
from the eye of the observer. The poor man's hut, though 
all within be raggedness and disorder, and all around it be 
full of the most nauseous and disgusting spectacles, — yet, 
if seen at a sufficient distance, may appear a sweet and 
interesting cottage. That field where the thistle grows, 
and the face of which is deformed by the wild exuberance 
of a rank and pernicious vegetation, may delight the eye 
of a distant spectator by the loveliness of its verdure. 
That lake, whose waters are corrupted, and whose banks 
poison the air by their marshy and putrid exhalations, may 
charm the eye of an enthusiast, who views it from an 
adjoining eminence, and dwells with rapture on the quiet- 
ness of its surface, and on the beauty of its outline — its 
sweet border fringed with the gayest colouring of nature, 
and on which spring lavishes its finest ornaments. All is 
the effect of distance. It softens the harsh and disgusting 
features of every object. What is gross and ordinary, it 
can dress in the most romantic attractions. The country 
hamlet it can transform into a paradise of beauty, in spite 
of the abominations that are at every door, and the angry 
brawlings of the men and the women who occupy it. All that 
is loathsome or offensive, is softened down by the power of 
distance.— We see the smoke rising in fantastic shapes 
through the pure air, and the village spire peeping through 
the thick verdure of the trees which embosom it. The 



170 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

fancy of our sentimentalist swells with pleasure, and peace 
and piety supply their delightful associations to complete 
the harmony of the picture. This principle may serve to 
explain a feeling which some of us may have experienced. — 
On a fine day, when the sun threw its unclouded splen- 
dours over a whole neighbourhood, did we never form a 
wish that our place could be transferred to some distant 
and more beautiful part of the landscape ? Did the idea 
never rise in our fancy, that the people who sport on yon 
sunny bank are happier than ourselves — that we should 
like to be buried in that distant grove, and forget, for a 
while, in silence and in solitude, the distractions of the 
world — that we should like to repose by yon beautiful 
rivulet, and soothe every anxiety of our heart by the gen- 
tleness of its murmurs — that we should like to transport 
ourselves to the distance of miles, and there enjoy the 
peace which resides in some sweet and sheltered conceal- 
ment ? In a word, were there no secret aspirations of the 
soul for another place than what we actually occupied? 
Instead of resting in the quiet enjoyment of our present 
situation, did not our wishes wander, abroad and around 
us ; and were we not ready to exclaim with the Psalmist 
in the text, " that I had wings like a dove ; for then 
would I fly to yonder mountain, and be at rest?" Ibid. 



INFATUATION OF MANKIND WITH REGARD TO THE 
THINGS OF TIME. 

But, if no danger is to be apprehended while the thunder 
of heaven rolls at a distance, believe me, when it collects 
over our heads, we may be fatally convinced, that a well- 
spent life is the only conductor, that can avert the bolt. 
Let' us reflect, that time waits for no man. Sleeping or 
waking, our days are on the wing. If we look to those that 
are past, they are but as a point. When I compare the pres- 
ent aspect of this city with that which it exhibited within 
the short space of my own residence, what does the result 
present, but the most melancholy proof of human insta- 
bility ? New characters in every scene ; new events, new 
principles, new passions ; a new creation insensibly arisen 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 171 

from the ashes of the old ; which side soever I look, the 
ravage of death has nearly renovated all. Scarcely do we 
look around us in life, when our children are matured, and 
remind us of the grave. The great feature of all nature 
is rapidity of growth and declension. Ages are renewed, 
but the figure of the world passeth away. God only re- 
mains the same. The torrent, that sweeps by, runs at the 
base of his immutability; and he sees, with indignation, 
wretched mortals, as they pass along, insulting him by the 
visionary hope of sharing that attribute, which belongs to 
Him alone. 

It is to the incomprehensible oblivion of our mortality, 
that the world owes all its fascination. Observe for what 
man toils. Observe what it often costs him to become rich 
and great — dismal vicissitudes of hope and disappointment 
— often all that can degrade the dignity of his nature, and 
offend his God ! Study the matter of the pedestal, and the 
instability of the statue.— Scarce is it erected, — scarce pre- 
sented to the stare of the multitude, — when death, starting 
like a massy fragment from the summit of a mountain, 
dashes the proud colossus into dust ! Where, then, is the 
promised fruit of all his toil ? Where the wretched and 
deluded being, who fondly promised himself that he had 
laid up much goods for many years? — Gone, my brethren, 
to his account, a naked victim, trembling in the hands of 
the living God! Yes, my brethren, that final catastrophe 
of all human passions, is rapid as it is awful. Fancy your- 
selves on that bed, from which you never shall rise, and the 
reflection will exhibit, like a true and faithful mirror, what 
shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue. Happy they 
who meet that great, inevitable transition full of days ! 
Unhappy they who meet it but to tremble and despair ! 
Then it is that man learns wisdom, when too late; then it 
is that every thing will forsake him, but his virtues or his 
crimes. To him the world is past; dignities, honours, 
pleasure, glory ! — past like the cloud of the morning ! nor 
could all that the great globe inherits, afford him, at that 
tremendous hour, as much consolation, as the recollection 
of having given but one cup of cold water to a child of 
wretchedness, in the name of Christ Jesus ! Kirwan. 



172 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

THE WEDDING GARMENT. 

A certain king prepared a sumptuous banquet in 
honour of his son. The first invitations were issued to 
the nobles of the land, and sundry families, who had long 
been favourites with the prince. But the banqueting 
hour arrived, and did not bring them. A sulky fit had 
seized them, and, as if by combination, they all remained 
away. But the king was resolved that his munificence 
should not be lost, nor the honour intended for his son, 
defeated ; and, as all the people round about were alike 
his subjects, he said to his servants, " The feast is ready, 
but none of the guests have come. Go out into the high- 
ways and hedges, and bring in all you can find." The 
servants went; and great surprise there was when they 
told their errand. One poor labourer, returning from his 
work, after toiling all day, had got no wages from the man 
who hired him, and was trudging wearily home to his 
empty cupboard, when the king's messenger accosted him, 
and told him that a feast was prepared for him. After the 
first gaze of incredulity, seeing by his uniform that he 
was the king's servant, and really in earnest, the poor 
labourer turned his steps towards the palace. The next 
was a cripple, who sat by the wayside begging. He had 
gathered little that day, when the messenger told him he 
would find a feast at the palace, and the king desired to 
see him. He had heard that something remarkable was 
going on at the court, and that the king was giving an 
entertainment in honour of some special event in his son's 
history; and, though he scarcely expected anything more 
than a ration of bread and wine at the gate, as he knew 
that the king was of a very sumptuous and gracious dis- 
position, he did not hesitate, but raised himself on his 
crutches, got up, and hobbled away. 

Then the messenger came to a shady lane, down which 
a retired old gentleman lived, on a small spot of ground 
of his own. The messenger had far more trouble with 
him. It was not so much that he questioned the message, 
or that he did not like the invitation, but that he was 
annoyed at its abruptness, and his own unpreparedness. 
He asked if there were to be no more invitations issued 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 173 

next week, or if there was no possibility of postponing the 
visit till the following evening ; for, considering his station in 
society, he would like to appear in his best, and would have 
been glad of a little leisure to get all things in order. " How- 
ever," said the messenger, " you know the custom of our 
court, — the king provides all the robes of state — all things 
are ready, come away;" and, as he posted on, the old 
householder thought, that, rather than run any risk, he had 
better go at once — though some noticed, that, as he passed 
along, he occasionally eyed his threadbare garment with a 
look that seemed to say, he could have put on better, had 
longer time been allowed him. 

At the palace it was interesting to see how the different 
parties acted. According to the custom of that country, 
and more especially after the magnificent manner of that 
king, each guest was furnished, on his arrival, with a gor- 
geous robe. They were all alike, exceedingly rich and 
• costly; and the moment he came up, one was handed to 
each new-comer; and he put it on, and passed in to the 
dazzling banquet-hall. Some awkward persons, who did 
not know the usage of the place, and who had carried with 
them the mean notions which they had learned among the 
highways and hedges, scrupled to receive these shining- 
robes, and asked what price they must pay for them. One 
individual was observed to come in with rather better attire 
than the most, and, when offered a robe of the king's pro- 
viding, he politely declined it, and stepped forward into 
the state apartments. He was no sooner there than he 
rued his vanity ; for his faded tinsel contrasted fearfully 
with the clothing of wrought gold in which the other 
guests were arrayed. Instead of going back, however, to 
get it changed, he awaited the issue. 

All things were now ready — the folding-doors opened, 
and, from chambers all radiant with purest light, and redo- 
lent of sweetest odours, amidst a joyful train, the king 
stepped in to see the guests assembled. A frown, for a 
moment, darkened his majestic brow as he espied the pre- 
sumptuous guest — but the intruder that instant vanished 
— and with a benignity, which awakened, in every soul, 
such a joy as it had never felt before — with a look which 



174 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

conferred nobility wherever it alighted, and a smile that 
awakened immortality in every bosom — he bade them wel- 
come to the ivory palace, and told them to forget their 
father's house and their poor original ; for he meant to 
make them princes every one, and, as there were many 
mansions in the house, they should abide there for ever. 

You will observe that a welcome from the king depends 
entirely on having on, what the Gospel parable calls " a 
wedding robe." This robe, according to the custom of old 
and Eastern times, is provided by the head of the house, 
and, as a matter of course, is put on every guest as he 
enters — provided only if he be willing- — but none who is 
willing needs want it, for it is given gratuitously to all. 
That robe is righteousness — not man's, but Jehovah's — the 
righteousness of God's providing — that righteousness which 
is embodied in Christ Jesus, as it was wrought out by him 
— that righteousness which made Paul so careless about 
worldly calamities, and so disdainful of his own perform- 
ances. Dear brethren ! be persuaded — put ye on the .Lord 
Jesus Christ and his righteousness. 

James Hamilton, of London. 

THE PLANT OF RENOWN. 

There was a small colony planted on a creek of a vast 
continent. Their soil was very fertile, but its limits were 
somewhat narrow. Its size and resources, however, were 
sufficient for the inhabitants. We have said that its limits 
were narrow. On the landward side it was enclosed by an 
amphitheatre of rocky mountains, so precipitous that 
nothing, save the white clouds and dwindling eagle, could 
pass over them. On the other side it looked out on the 
bulging expanse of the immeasurable main. At the time 
we speak of, a pestilence had broken out, which made fear- 
ful havoc among the population. It was a dreadful disease, 
before which the sturdiest manhood crumbled down, and 
the brightest beauty withered away. It was not long till 
two appalling discoveries were made. First, it was found 
that no one had escaped it ; for, though some exhibited its 
virulence more fearfully than others, the little child in the 
cradle, and the shepherd on the distant plain were smitten, 



SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 175 

as well as the grown people in the village streets; and 
next, the doctors declared that it was beyond their skill — — 
they could do nothing for it. 

Just at the time the plague was raging worst, a stranger 
appeared and told them there was a cure. He said that 
there was a plant which healed this disorder; and he 
described it. He mentioned that it was a lowly plant, not 
conspicuous nor arresting to the eye — that it had a red 
blossom and sweet-scented leaves, and a bruised-looking 
stem, and that it was evergreen. He told a number of 
other particulars regarding it, and, as he could not tarry 
longer at that time, he left a paper in which they should 
find a full description of it, and directions how to find it. 
The tidings, diffused considerable activity through the 
sickly colony. A plant of such efficacy deserved the most 
diligent search. Almost all agreed that it must be far 
away; but a discussion arose whether it lay beyond the 
cliffs or across the sea. Most thought the latter; and soon 
set to work and built a ship ; and when they had launched 
her, they called her Ecclesia, and hoisted a red cross 
flag, and sent round word that the fine ship Ecclesia was 
about to 'sail in search of the famous plant ; and all who 
wished to escape the plague, were invited to take passage 
on board of her. 

A few others thought, however, that the ship was going 
the wrong way, and that they would have better success 
by trying to get over the cliffs. This was an arduous 
enterprise, for the precipices were beetling steep and ex- 
tremely high. A few attempts were made to climb by 
ravines and gullies, which, however, ended in walls of 
glassy smoothness; and, after many weariful efforts, the 
climbers either grew dizzy or fell back, or allowed them- 
selves to slide down to the crumbling debris at the bottom. 
Others, more inventive, busied themselves constructing 
artificial wings, and aerial engines of various kinds, Imi~ 
tatio Christi, asceticism, penitential prayers, and such like; 
and some of them answered exceedingly well for a little, 
and their inventors rose so high, that their neighbours 
really thought they would reach the top ; but after getting 
a certain height, whether it was owing to the weakness of 



176 SPECIMENS OF ELOQUENCE. 

the materials, or a powerful current, which they always 
met at a certain elevation, and which, by a sort of down- 
draught, blew them back from the brow of the mountain, 
they uniformly found themselves again on the spot from 
which they first ascended. 

A long time had now passed on, and multitudes had 
died of the plague without any clearer views of the spe- 
cific plant ; when a poor sufferer, who had already gone a 
fruitless expedition in the ship, and, from the severity of 
his anguish, was eager in trying every scheme, lay tossing 
on his bed. He got hold of a large paper roll which lay 
on a shelf beside him. It was soiled and dirty, and the 
ink was faded ; but, to while away the time, he began to 
unfold it, and found from the beginning that it was the 
Book of the Balm of Gilead. He at once suspected that 
it was the book which the stranger had left so long ago, 
and wondered how they had suffered it to fall aside; and 
he had not read far till it told him that, if he would only 
read on, it would put him on the way of finding the Plant 
of Renown. It gave a full description — many particulars 
of which he had never heard before — and, as he advanced 
in his feverish earnestness, unrolling it fold by fold, and 
rapidly reading as he went along, hoping that it would tell 
the very spot where he should look for it, he found the 
plant itself. There it lay in the heart of the long-neglected 
volume: and Luther's eye glistened as he read "Christ 
is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that 
believeth." " But where is Christ to be found? Must I 
ascend the height, or descend into the deep ? Must I 
climb the cliffs or cross that sea ? Oh ! no. Christ is here 
— nigh me — God's present gift to me conveyed in the 
volume of the book. I see him. I accept him. I believe. 
He is the Lord my righteousness." From that moment, — 
though it did not strike him at the time, — in the flash of 
his sudden joy, began Luther's life eternal. 

The apologue has betrayed itself; but no matter : it is 
so historically true that it could not be hid. The cure for 
a sin-stricken, dying world was long concealed in the Bible, 
till, led by the Spirit of God, Luther found it there. You 
have only to go where Luther went, and you too shall 
find it. Ibid, 



DEBATE 

OX THE 

CHARACTER OF JULIUS CJESAR. 

BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 

Spoken June, 1815. 



This Debate was first delivered in the Royal Belfast Academical Insti- 
tution. I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of recording the names of 
the noble little fellows for whom it was composed, and who, in reciting 
it, acquitted themselves in such a manner as to transcend the most san- 
guine expectations of their teacher. 

J.. S. K. 



Robert Archer, Chairman. 
Debaters. 



JAMES GIBSOX, 
FRASCIS McCRACKEX, 
ROBERT PATTER SOX, 
ROBERT GAMBLE, Sen., 
BEXJAMIX A. GAMBLE, 
FRAXCTS ARCHER, 



ROBERT YAXCE, 
TV. McCLEERY, 
ROBERT TEMPLETOX, 
WILLIAM SIMMS, 
HEXRY HERBERT, 
FRANCIS AYARIX 



Robert Archer.— Gentlemen — 

I am happy to see you. You have assembled to discuss 
the propriety of calling Caesar a great man. I promise 
myself much satisfaction from your debate. I promise 
myself the pleasure of hearing many ingenious arguments 
on each side of the question. I promise myself the grati- 
fication of witnessing a contest, maintained with animation, 
good humour, and courtesy. You are my sureties, and I 
shall not be disappointed. 

You are assembled, Gentlemen, to discuss the merits of 
a man, whose actions are connected with some of the most 
interesting events in Roman story. You have given the 
subject due consideration — you come prepared for the 

Q 



178 REBATE. 

contest; and I shall not presume to offer any opinion 
respecting the ground which either side ought to take. 
My remarks shall be coniined to the study of Oratory — 
and, allow me to say, I consider Oratory to be the second 
end of our academic labours, of which the first end is, to 
render us enlightened, useful, and virtuous. 

The principal means of communicating our ideas are 
two — speech and writing. The former is the parent of 
the latter ; it is the more important, and its highest efforts 
are called — Oratory. 

If we consider the very early period at which we begin 
to exercise the faculty of speech, and the frequency with 
which we exercise it, it must be a subject of surprise that 
so few excel in Oratory. In any enlightened community, 
you will find numbers who are highly skilled in some par- 
ticular art or science, to the study of which they did not 
apply themselves, till they had almost arrived at the stage 
of manho'od. Yet, with regard to the powers of speech — 
those powers which the very second year of our existence 
generally calls into action, the exercise of which goes on 
at our sports, our studies, our walks, our very meals, and 
which is never long suspended, except at the hour of 
refreshing sleep — with regard to those powers, how few 
surpass their fellow creatures of common information and 
moderate attainments ! how very few deserve distinction ! 
— how rarely does one attain to eminence ! 

The causes are various ; but we must not attempt, here, 
to investigate them. By doing so, we might alarm many 
a formidable adversary ; we might excite a suspicion that 
we wished to undermine the foundations of modern litera- 
ture : although our only aim should be to render them 
sound and durable, and to despoil the edifice of a few mo- 
nastic features, that mar the harmony, and take from the 
general effect of the structure. 

I shall simply state, that one cause of our not generally 
excelling in Oratory is — our neglecting to cultivate the art 
of speaking — of speaking our own language. We acquire 
the power of expressing our ideas almost insensibly — we 
consider it as a thing that is natural to us ; we do not regard 
it as an art — it is an art— a difficult art — an intricate art 



DEBATE. 179 

— and our ignorance of that circumstance, or our omit- 
ting to give it due consideration, is the cause of our defi- 
ciency. 

In the infant just beginning to articulate, you will 
observe every inflection that is recognised in the most 
accurate treatise on elocution — you will observe, further, 
an exact proportion in its several cadences, and a speaking 
expression in its tones. I say, you will observe these 
things in almost every infant. Select a dozen men — men 
of education — erudition — ask them to read a piece of ani- 
mated composition — you will be fortunate if you find one 
in the dozen that can raise or depress his voice — inflect or 
modulate it, as the variety of the subject requires. What 
has become of. the inflections, the cadences, and the modu- 
lation of the infant ? They have not been exercised — they 
have been neglected — they have never been put into the 
hands of the artist, that he might apply them to their 
proper use — they have been laid aside, spoiled, abused ; 
and, ten to one, they will never be good for anything ! 

Oratory is highly useful to him that excels in it. In 
common conversation, observe the advantage which the 
fluent speaker enjoys over the man that hesitates and 
stumbles in discourse. With half his information, he has 
twice his importance ; he commands the respect of his 
auditors ; he instructs and gratifies them. In the general 
transactions of business, the same superiority attends him. 
He communicates his views with clearness, precision, and 
effect ; he carries his point by his mere readiness ; he con- 
cludes his treaty before another kind of man would have 
well set about it. Does he plead the cause of friendship ? 
— how happy is his friend ! Of charity ? — how fortunate 
is the distressed ! Should he enter the senate of his coun- 
try, he gives strength to the party which he espouses : 
should he be independent of party, he is a party in himself. 
If he advocates the cause of royalty, he deserves to be a 
monarch's champion ; if he defends the commons, he ap- 
proves himself the people's bulwark ! 

That you will persevere in 'the pursuit of so useful a 
study as that of Oratory, I confidently hope. That your 
progress has been, hitherto, considerable, I am about to 
receive a proof. 



180 DEBATE. 

Gentlemen, the question for debate is — 

Was Caesar a Great Man ? 

James Gibson. — Sir, to bespeak your indulgence, is 
a duty imposed by a consciousness of my deficiency. I am 
unpractised in the orator's art, nor can I boast that native 
energy of talent, which asks not the tempering of expe- 
rience ; but, by its single force, effects what seems the 
proper achievement of labours and of years. Let me then 
hope, that you will excel in favour, as much as I shall 
fall short in merit. Let me presume that the perform- 
ance of what I undertake with diffidence, will be regarded 
by you with allowance. Let me anticipate, that failure 
will not be imputed as a crime to him who dares not hope 
success. 

" Was Caesar a great man?" — What revolution has taken 
place in the first appointed government of the universe ? — 
what new and opposite principle has begun to direct the 
operations of nature ? — what refutation of their long estab- 
lished precepts, has deprived Reason of her sceptre, and 
Virtue of her throne, that a character, which forms the 
noblest theme that ever Merit gave to Fame, should now 
become a question for debate ? 

No painter of human excellence, if he would draw the 
features of that hero's character, needs study a favourable 
light or striking attitude. In every posture it has ma- 
jesty ; and the lineaments of its beauty are prominent in 
every point of view. Do you ask me, " Had Caesar genius ?" 
— he was an orator ! c Had Caesar judgment ? " — he was 
a politician ! " Had Caesar valour ?" — he was a conqueror ! 
" Had Caesar feeling ?" — he was a friend ! 

It is a generally received opinion, that uncommon cir- 
cumstances make uncommon men — Caesar was an uncom- 
mon man in common circumstances. The colossal mind 
commands your admiration, no less in the pirates' captive 
than in the victor of Pharsalia. Who, but the first of his 
race, could have made vassals of his savage masters, 
mocked them into reverence of his superior nature, and 
threatened, with security, the power that held him at its 
mercy ? Of all the striking incidents of Caesar's life, had 



DEBATE. 181 

history preserved for us but this single one, it would have 
been sufficient to make us fancy all the rest — at least we 
should have said, " Such a man was born to conquest and 
to empire ! " 

To expatiate on Cgesar's powers of oratory, would only 
be to add one poor eulogmm to the testimony of the first 
historians. Cicero, himself, grants him the palm of almost 
pre-eminent merit; and seems at a loss for words to ex- 
press his admiration of him. His voice was musical, 
his delivery energetic, his language chaste and rich, ap- 
propriate and peculiar. And it is well presumed, that, 
had he studied the art of public speaking with as much 
industry a* he studied the art of war, he would have been 
the first of orators. Quintilian says, he would have been 
the only man capable of combating Cicero ; but, granting 
them to have been equal in ability, what equal contest 
would the timid Cicero — whose nerves fail him, and whose 
tongue falters, when the forum glitters with arms — what 
equal contest could he have held with the man whose 
vigour chastised the Belgae, and annihilated the Nervii, 
that maintained their ground till they were hewn to pieces 
on the spot. 

His abilities, as a master of composition, were undoubt- 
edly of the first order. How admirable is the structure of 
his Commentaries ! what perspicuity and animation are 
there in the details ! You fancy yourself upon the field of 
action ! You follow the development of his plans with 
the liveliest curiosity ! — You look on with unwearied atten- 
tion, as he fortifies his camp, or invests his enemy, or 
crosses the impetuous torrent ! — You behold his legions, 
as they move forward, from different points, to the line of 
battle — you hear the shout of the onset, and the crash of 
the encounter ; and, breathless with suspense, mark every 
fluctuation of the awful tide of war ! 

As a politician, how consummate was his address ! — ■ 
How grand his projections ! — How happy the execution of 
his measures ! He compels the vanquished Helvetii to 
rebuild their towns and villages ; making his enemies the 
guards, as it were, of his frontier. He captivates, by his 
clemency, the Arverni and the iEdui, winning to the sup- 



182 DEBATE. 

port of his arms the strength that had been employed 
to overpower them. He governs his province with such 
equity and wisdom as add a milder but a fairer lustre to 
his glory ; and, by their fame, prepare the Roman people 
for his happy yoke. Upon the very eve of his rupture 
with Pompey, he sends back, on demand, the borrowed 
legions, covering with rewards the soldiers that may no 
longer serve him; and whose weapons, on the morrow, 
may be turned against his breast — presenting here a noble 
example of his respect of right ; and of that magnanimity, 
which maintains that gratitude should not cease, though 
benefits are discontinued. When he reigns sole master of 
the Roman world, how temperate is his triumph ! — how 
scrupulous his respect for the very forms of the laws ! — He 
discountenances the profligacy of the patricians, and en- 
deavours to preserve the virtue of the state, by laying 
wholesome restraints upon luxury. He encourages the 
arts and sciences, patronises genius and talent, respects 
religion and justice, and puts in practice every means that 
can contribute to the welfare, the happiness, and the sta- 
bility of the empire. 

To you, Sir, who are so fully versed in the page of 
history, it must be unnecessary to recount the military 
exploits of Caesar. Why should I compel your attention 
to follow him, for the hundredth time, through hostile 
myriads, yielding, at every encounter, to the force of his 
invincible arms. Full often, Sir, have your calculations 
hesitated to credit the celerity of his inarches ; your belief 
recoiled at the magnitude of his operations; and your won- 
der reperused the detail of his successive victories, follow- 
ing upon the shouts of one another. As a captain, he was 
the first of warriors ; nor were his Valour and skill more 
admirable than his abstinence and watchfulness; his dis- 
regard of ease and his endurance of labour ; his moderation 
and his mercy. Perhaps, indeed, this last quality forms 
the most prominent feature in his character ; and proves, 
by the consequence of its excess, that virtue itself requires 
restraint, and has its proper bounds, which it ought not to 
exceed — for Caesar's moderation was his ruin ! 

That Caesar had a heart susceptible of friendship, and 



DEBATE. 183 

alive to the finest touches of humanity, is unquestionable. 
Why does he attempt so often to avert the storm of civil 
war ? Why does he pause so long upon the brink of the 
Eubicon ? — Why does he weep when he beholds the head 
of his unfortunate rival ? — Why does he delight in pardon- 
ing his enemies — even those very men that had deserted 
him ? 

It seems as if he lived the lover of mankind, and fell- 
as the bard expresses it — vanquished, not so much by the 
weapons as by the ingratitude of his murderers. 

If, Sir, a combination of the most splendid talents for 
war with the most sacred love of peace — of the most illus- 
trious public virtue with the most endearing private worth 
—of the most unyielding courage with the most accessible 
moderation, may constitute a great man — that title must 
be Caesar's. 

Francis M'Cracken. — No change, Sir, has taken place 
in the first appointed government of the universe — the 
operations of nature acknowledge, now, the same principle 
that they did in the beginning — Reason still holds her 
sceptre, Virtue still fills her throne, and the epithet of great 
does not belong to Caesar ! 

I would lay it down, Sir, as an unquestionable position, 
that the worth of talents is to be estimated only by the 
use we make of them. If we employ them in the cause of 
virtue, their value is great — If we employ them in the 
cause of vice, they are less than worthless — they are per- 
nicious and vile. Now, Sir, let us examine Caesar's talents 
by this principle, and we shall find, that, neither as an 
orator nor as a politician — neither as a warrior nor as a 
friend — was Caesar a great man. 

If I were asked, " What was the first, the second, and 
the last principle of the virtuous mind ?" I should reply, 
" It was the love of country." Sir, it is the love of parent, 
brother, friend I — the love of man ! — the love of honour, 
virtue, and religion ! — the love of every good and virtuous 
deed ! — I say, Sir, if I were asked, " What was the first, 
the second, and the last principle of the virtuous mind V 
I should reply, " It was the love of country !" Without 
it, man is the basest of his kind! — a selfish, cunning, 



184 DEBATE. 

narrow speculator ! — a trader in the dearest interests of 
his species ! — reckless of every tie of nature — sentiment — 
affection — a Marius — a Sylla — a Crassus — a Cataline — a 
Caesar ! What, Sir, was Caesar's oratory ? — How far did 
it prove him to be actuated by the love of country ? I'll 
tell you, Sir ; I'll show you this great Caesar in such a light 
and posture, as shall present no air of majesty or linea- 
ment of beauty. How far, I say, Sir, did Caesar's oratory 
prove him to be actuated by the love of country ? It 
justified, for political interest, the invader of his domestic 
honour : — sheltered the incendiary ! — abetted treason ! — 
flattered the people into their own undoing! — assailed the 
liberties of his country, and bawled into silence every vir- 
tuous patriot that struggled to uphold them ! He would 
have been a greater orator than Cicero ! I question the 
assertion — I deny that it is correct — I revolt from it — I 
will not suffer it ! He would have been a greater orator 
than Cicero ! Well — let it pass — he might have been a 
greater orator, but he never could have been so great a 
man. Which way soever he had directed his talents, the 
same inordinate ambition would have led to the same re- 
sults ; and, had he devoted himself to the study of oratory, 
his tongue had produced the same effects as his sword : 
and equally desolated the human kingdom. 

But Caesar is to be admired as a politician ! I do not 
pretend to define the worthy speaker's idea of a politician ; 
but I shall attempt, Mr. Chairman, to put you in posses- 
sion of mine. By a politician, I understand a man who 
studies the laws of prudence and of justice, as they are 
applicable to the wise and happy government of a people, 
and the reciprocal obligations of states. Now, Sir, how 
far was Caesar to be admired as a politician ? He makes 
war upon the innocent Spaniards, that his military talents 
may not suffer from inaction. This was a ready way to 
preserve the peace of his province, and to secure its loyalty 
and affection ! That he may be recorded as the first 
Roman that had ever crossed the Rhine in a hostile man- 
ner, he invades the unoffending Germans, lays waste their 
territories with fire, and plunders and sacks the country 
of the Sicambri and the Suevi. Here was a noble policy ! 



DEBATE. 185 

— that planted in the minds of a brave and formidable 
people, the fatal seeds of that revenge and hatred, which 
finally assisted in accomplishing the destruction of the 
Roman empire ! In short, Sir, Caesar's views were not of 
that enlarged nature, which could entitle him to the name 
of a great politician ; for he studied, not the happiness and 
interest of a community, but merely his own advance- 
ment, which he accomplished by violating the laws, and 
destroying the liberties, of his country. 

That Caesar was a great conqueror I do not care to 
dispute. His admirers are welcome to all the advantages 
that result from such a position. I will not subtract one 
victim from the hosts that perished for his fame ; or abate, 
by a single groan, the sufferings of his vanquished enemies, 
from his first great battle in Gaul, to his last victory under 
the walls of Munda — but I will avow it to be my opinion, 
that the character of a great conqueror does not neces- 
sarily constitute that of a great man ; nor can the recital 
of Caesar's many victories produce any other impression 
upon my mind, than what proceeds from the contemplation 
of those convulsions of the earth, which, in a moment, 
inundate with ruin the plains of fertility and the abodes 
of peace ; or, at one shock, convert whole cities into the 
graves of their living population ! 

But Caesar's munificence, his clemency, his moderation, 
and his affectionate nature, constitute him a great man ! 
What was his munificence, his clemency, or his modera- 
tion ? — The automaton of his ambition ! It knew no as- 
piration from the Deity. It was a thing from the hands 
of a mechanician ! — an ingenious mockery of nature ! Its 
action seemed spontaneous —its look argued a soul — but 
all the virtue lay in the finger of the operator. He could 
possess no real munificence, moderation, or clemency, who 
ever expected his gifts to be doubled by return — who never 
abstained, but with a view to excess ; nor spared but for 
the indulgence of rapacity. 

Of the same nature, Sir, were his affections. He was 
indeed, a man of exquisite artifice ; but the deformity of his 
character was too prominent — no dress could thoroughly 
hide it ; nay, Sir, the very attempt to conceal served only 



186 DEBATE. 

to discover the magnitude of the distortion. He atones 
to the violated and murdered laws by doing homage to 
their rnan&s ; and expiates the massacre of thousands by 
dropping a tear or two into an ocean of blood ! 

Robert Patterson. — Sir, to form an idea of Caesar's 
character, it is necessary to consider the nature of the times 
in which he lived ; for the conduct of public men cannot 
be duly estimated, without a knowlege of the circum- 
stances under which they have acted. The happiness of 
a community resembles the health of the body. As it is 
not. always the same regimen that can preserve, or the 
same medicine that can restore the latter, so the former 
is not always to be maintained by the same measures, or 
recovered by the same corrections. There was a time 
when kingly power had grown to so enormous an excess, 
as rendered its abolition necessary for the salvation of the 
Roman people — Let us examine whether the times in 
which Caesar lived, did not call for, and justify, the mea- 
sures which he adopted — whether the liberty of the repub- 
lic had not degenerated into such a state of anarchy, as 
rendered it expedient that the power of the empire should 
be vested in one man, whose influence and talents could 
command party and control faction. 

The erroneous ideas that we have formed concerning 
Roman liberty, have induced us to pass a severe judgment 
on the actions of many an illustrious man. The admirers 
of that liberty will not expect to be told that it was little 
better than a name. True liberty, Sir, could never have 
been enjoyed by a people who were the slaves of continual 
tumults and cabals ; whose magistrates were the mere 
echoes of a crowd, and among whom virtue itself had no 
protection from popular caprice or state intrigue. By the 
term liberty, I understand a freedom from all responsi- 
bility, except what morality, virtue, and religion impose. 

That is the only liberty which is consonant with the 
true interests of man — the only liberty that renders his 
association with his fellow permanent and happy — the 
only iberty that places him in a peaceful, honourable, and 
prosperous community — the only liberty that makes him 
the son of a land that he would inhabit till his death, and 



DEBATE. 187 

the subject of a state that he would defend with his pro- 
perty and his blood ! All other liberty is but a counterfeit 
■ — the stamp a cheat, and the metal base — turbulence — 
insolence — licentiousness — party ferment — selfish domina- 
tion — anarchy — such anarchy as needed mor^e than mortal 
talents to restrain it; and found them in a Caesar. 

I hold it to be an unquestionable position, that they who 
duly appreciate the blessings of liberty, revolt as much 
from the idea of exercising, as from that of enduring, op- 
pression. How far this was the case with the Romans, 
you may inquire of those nations that surrounded them. 
Ask them, " What insolent guard paraded before their 
gates, and invested their strongholds?" They will an- 
swer, " A Roman legionary." Demand of them, " What 
greedy extortioner fattened by their poverty, and clothed 
himself by their nakedness ?" They will inform you, " A 
Roman Quaestor." Inquire of them, " What imperious 
stranger issued to them his mandates of imprisonment or 
confiscation, of banishment or death ?" They will reply to 
you, " A Roman Consul." Question them, " What haughty 
conqueror led, through his city, their nobles and kings in 
chains ; and exhibited their countrymen, by thousands, in 
gladiators' shows for the amusemenr of his fellow citi- 
zens ?" They will tell you, " A Roman General." Re- 
quire of them, " What tyrants imposed the heaviest yoke ? 
— enforced the most rigorous exactions ? — inflicted the 
most savage punishments, and showed the greatest gust 
for blood and torture ?" They will exclaim to you, c - The 
Roman people." 

Yes, Sir, that people, so jealous of what they called 
their liberties, to gratify an insatiate thirst for conquest, 
invaded the liberties of every other nation ; and on what 
spot soever they set their tyrant foot, the fair and happy 
soil of the freeman withered at their stamp ! But the re- 
tributive justice of Heaven ordained that their rapacity 
should be the means of its own punishment. As their 
territories extended, their armies required to be enlarged, 
and their campaigns became protracted. Hence the citi- 
zen lost, in the camp, that independence which he had 
been taught in the city ; and being long accustomed to 



188 DEBATE. 

obey, implicitly, the voice of his general, from having been 
sent forth the hope, returned the terror of his country. 
Hence, Sir, their generals forgot, in foreign parts, the 
republican principles which they had imbibed in the forum ; 
and, long habituated to unlimited command, from being 
despots abroad, learned to be traitors at home. Hence, 
Sir, Marius returned the salutations of his fellow-citizens 
with the daggers of assassins ; and, with cool ferocity, 
marched to the Capitol, amidst the groans of his butchered 
countrymen, expiring on each side of him ; — hence Sylla's 
bloody proscription, that turned Rome into a shambles — 
that tore its victims from the altars of the gods — that 
made it death for a man to shelter a person proscribed, 
though it were his son, his brother or his father ; and 
never suffered the executioners to take breath, till senators, 
knights, and citizens, to the number of nine thousand, had 
been inhumanly murdered ! 

Such, Sir, were the events that characterized the times 
in which Caesar lived. To such atrocities were the Roman 
people subject, while the rivalry of their leading men was 
at liberty to create divisions in the state. Had you, Sir, 
lived in those times, what would you have called the man, 
that would have stepped forward to secure your country 
against the repetition of those horrid scenes ? Would yon 
not have styled him a friend to his country — a benefactor 
to the world — a great man — a demi-god ? Was not Caesar 
such a character ? Observe what use he makes of power. 
He does not employ it to gratify revenge, or to awe his 
countrymen ; on the contrary, the whole of his conduct 
encourages confidence and freedom ; while he reforms the 
government, and enacts the wisest laws for the preservation 
of order, and for the happiness of the community. They 
who object to the character of Caesar, condemn it prin- 
cipally, upon the score of his having erected himself into 
the sole governor of the republic ; but let it be remembered, 
that the happiness of a state does not depend so much upon 
the form of its government, as upon the manner in which 
that government is administered. A country might be as 
prosperous and free under what was anciently called a ty- 
ranny, as where the chief power was vested in the people, 



DEBATE. 189 

In short, Sir, when Caesar created himself dictator, and 
thereby destroyed, virtually, the republican form of govern- 
ment, he usurped no more than the people did -when they 
erected themselves into a republic, and thereby destroyed 
the monarchy ; and the existing circumstances which ren- 
dered the act of the latter expedient, were not more urgent 
than those which gave rise to the conduct of the former. 

Csesar, Sir, was a great man ! 

Robert Gamble, Sen. — Csesar, Sir, was not a great 
man. He, who, for his own private views, disobeyed the 
order of the senate, from whom he held his power — he, who 
seduced from their duty the soldiers whom he commanded 
in trust for the republic — he, who passed the Rubicon, 
though, by that step, he knew he must inundate his coun- 
try with blood — he, who plundered the public treasury 
that he might indulge a selfish and rapacious ambition — 
he, against whom the virtuous Cato ranked himself, whose 
very mercy the virtuous Cato deemed a dishonour to which 
death was preferable,— was not a great man. 

" Caesar erected himself into a tryant, that he might 
prevent a repetition of those atrocities which had been 
committed by Marius and Sylla !" — what does the gentle- 
man mean by such an assertion ? Caesar pursues the same 
measures that Marius and Sylla did — Why? — To prevent 
the recurrence of the effects which those measures pro- 
duced ! — He keeps his eye steadfastly upon them — follows 
them in the same track — treads in their very foot-prints — 
Why? That he may arrive at a different point of desti- 
nation ! What fiimsy arguments are these ! What were 
Sylla and Marius that Csesar was not ? If they were 
ambitious, was not he ambitious ? If they were treach- 
erous, was not he treacherous ? If they rebelled, did not 
he rebel ? If they usurped, did not he usurp ? If they 
were tyrants, was not he a tyrant ? 

You were told — the people, from their long continued 
service in the army, gradually lost the spirit of independ- 
ence, and that the calamities of the state arose from that 
cause. Granted — it follows, then, that a spirit of inde- 
pendence was necessary for the prosperity of the state ; 
and, consequently, that the way to put a stop to its 



190 DEBATE. 

calamities, was to revive that spirit. Did Caesar do this ? 
The gentleman says he had the happiness of his country 
at heart. From his own argument it follows, that this 
was the way to secure the happiness of his country — Did 
Caesar adopt it ? — Was it to revive in his countrymen the 
spirit of independence, that he audaciously stepped from 
the rank of their servant to that of their master ? — Was it 
to preserve the integrity which fosters that spirit, that he 
corrupted the virtue of all that came in contact with him,, 
and that he dared to tempt ? — Was it for the regeneration 
of the republic, that he converted it into a tyranny ? — Was 
it to restore the government to its ancient health and 
soundness, that he filled all the offices of the state with his 
own creatures — the instruments of his usurpation ? — Was 
it to re-animate the people with a sense of their own dig- 
nity, that he called them Bruti and Cumcei — that is, 
beasts and fools — when they applauded the tribunes for 
having stripped his statues of the royal diadems with 
which his flatterers had dressed them ? These were the 
acts of Caesar. Did they tend to restore the ancient 
virtue of the Roman people ? No, Sir ; they tended to 
annihilate the chance of its restoration — to sink the people 
into a viler abasement — to rob them of the very names of 
men. 

But the gentleman has brought forward a very curious 
argument, for the purpose of proving that the Romans 
were incapable of being a free people — namely, that their 
magistrates were the mere echoes of the people. He ad- 
verts, I suppose, to what were called the tribunes of the 
people — officers that acted particularly for the plebeian 
orders, and were generally chosen from their body. But 
those magistrates, or tribunes were, it seems, the mere 
voices of the people, and that circumstance rendered the 
people incapable of being free ! To me, at least, this is 
a paradox. Who elected these tribunes ? — The people. 
What were they ? — The representatives of the people. 
Whose affairs did they manage? — The affairs of the people. 
To whom were they responsible ? — The people. What 
should they have been then but the voices, or, as the 
gentleman has expressed it, the echoes of the people ? But 



DEBATE. 191 

this circumstance rendered the Roman people incapable 
of being free ! Did it shackle them to have a control over 
their tribunes ? Did it enslave them to have a voice in 
their own measures ? Did it sell them into bondage to 
have the disposal of their own affairs ? If it did, I should 
advise you, Sir, not to meddle with that honest man, your 
steward. Bid him let what farms he pleases ; demand 
what fines he pleases ; cultivate what land he pleases ; fell 
what timber he pleases ; keep what accounts he pleases ; 
and make what returns he pleases ; lest by impertinently 
meddling with your servant, in your own affairs, you rob 
yourself — ruin your estate — become involved in debt — and 
end your days in prison ! 

The admirers of Caesar, and, of course, of that form of 
government which was anciently called a tyranny, are ex- 
tremely fond of under-rating the character of the Romans 
as a free people ; their liberty they always represent to us 
as something bordering on excess ; and, following the idea 
that extremes meet, they describe it as verging into that 
extreme which naturally leads to despotism. But the 
hypothesis, which is not borne out by facts, is good for 
nothing. It was not the liberty which the plebeians en- 
joyed that was the cause of their final enslavement. — It 
was the senate's jealousy of that liberty — the senate's 
struggles for the control of that liberty — the senate's 
plunder of that liberty — the senate's desire to annihilate 
that liberty, which left it in the power of any crafty knave, 
miscalled a great man, who was sufficiently master of 
hypocrisy and daring, to set his foot on both the senate 
and the people, and make himself, as Caesar did, the tyrant 
of his country ! 

Francis Archer. — Mr. Chairman — 

B. A. Gamble. — Mr. Chairman— 

Francis Archer. — I believe I am in possession of the 
chair — I certainly spoke first. 

B. A. Gamble. — I apprehend that I rose first — How- 
ever, the point may be easily settled — the Chairman will 
decide which of us first caught his attention. 

Chairman. — The last speaker is certainly in possession 
of the chair. 



192 DEBATE. 

Francis Archer. — I acquiesce in the decision. 

B. A. Gamble. — When the voice of a single man can 
operate so instantaneously in composing a difference, who 
would not approve of a rational and moderate tyranny ? 
It is not, however, Mr. Chairman, my present object to 
answer the arguments which have been so ably brought 
forward to support the negative of this question. I rise, 
to submit a few observations upon the nature of the ques- 
tion itself. I take the liberty of stating, that I think it 
an injudiciously selected question — a vague and indefinite 
question — a question which does not receive from every 
mind the same interpretation. I dare assert, Mr. Chair- 
man, that, in this very assembly, there are various differ- 
ent opinions with respect to what constitutes a great man. 
Some will tell you that greatness consists in rank — some " 
in exploits — some in talents — some in virtue. Thus, 
Sir, the very premises of our discussion are unsettled and 
wavering; and, from unsettled and wavering premises, 
what can proceed but indefinite and inconclusive argu- 
ments ? Already do the gentlemen on the opposite side 
endeavour to strain your question to the construction, that 
greatness essentially consists in goodness ; and they may 
quote Mr. Pope, and say u 'Tis phrase absurd to call a 
villain great." Others, again, may insist that greatness 
depends upon rank, and exclaim with Milton, " Worthiest, 
by being good, far more than great or high." Where are 
we to rest, Sir, upon this doubtful basis ? — This " neither 
sea nor good dry land !" I confess, Mr. Chairman, that, 
until this point shall have been disposed of, I cannot hope 
for an end to the debate ; and, therefore, propose, as an 
amendment, that, previously to the further discussion of 
the question, we shall determine, " what it is that consti- 
tutes a great man ?" 

Francis Archer. — I oppose the amendment ! I oppose 
it, because I think it unnecessary, unprecedented, ill-timed, 
and indecorous. 

Francis Ward. — I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman, 
but I believe there is not any motion before you, as the 
gentleman's amendment has not been seconded. 

Robert Vance. — Mr. Chairman, I second the amend- 
ment. 



DEBATE. 193 

Chairman. — The gentleman, then, will have the good- 
ness to submit his amendment in writing. 

Francis Archer. — I apprehend, Sir, that your recom- 
mendation involves a question of no small importance; 
namely, whether the gentleman can write. 

B. A. Gamble. — I tbank the gentleman for his friendly 
insinuation, and beg leave to assure him, that if I cannot 
write, my deficiency is far less deplorable than his, who is 
master of the art of penmanship, and makes a despicable 
use of it : and I dare assert, that the man, who makes a 
bad use of his tonoue, will never use his pen to much 
advantage. Mr. Chairman, here is the motion, ready 
written ; and if the writing is not mine, the dictation is ; 
and that is more than many a man can say who flourishes 
upon paper ! 

Francis Archer. — Sir, If the little gentleman that has 
just sat down, imagines it would give me any pleasure to 
hurt his feelings, I assure him he is much mistaken. Mr. 
Chairman, I object to the amendment on two grounds; 
first, because it is indecorous with regard to you ; secondly, 
because it is uncalled for with regard to the question. 
Your experience, Sir, could never have allowed you to 
propose a question that required revision ; and had you 
proposed such a question, it would have been our duty to 
receive it without comment. The question in point does 
not require revision. You do not ask if Caesar was a 
great warrior, or a great politician ; but if he was a great 
man. Surely, Sir, in these enlightened times, we do not 
inquire what it is that constitutes a great man ? Do we 
not refuse the name of man to him that violates the laws 
of morality and religion ? And, if we wish to express that 
a person is eminently virtuous, do we not use that name 
without a single epithet ? 4£ o say of any one that he is a 
man, is to give him credit for the noblest endowments of 
the heart. To say that he is not a man,- is to leave him 
destitute of any generous principle. The question cannot 
be viewed in any light but one, namely, as inquiring 
whether Caesar was a man of great virtues, and justifiable 
conduct ? If he was so, our opposition will be fruitless — 
If he was not so, those gentlemen exert their eloquence to 
little purpose. 



194 DEBATE. 

B. A. Gamble. — Sir, I hope the big gentleman that 
has just sat down, will do me the justice to believe, that as 
I receive little satisfaction from being offended, so I am not 
sedulous to find out cause for offence. If the gentleman is 
serious in his apology, I ought to be, and I am — satisfied. 
If he is not serious, I assure him, that I pity the poverty 
of that man's pretensions, who thinks he can humiliate 
another, by reflecting upon the dimensions of his body- — 
that least and lowest part of a man ! — It is not, Sir, the 
consideration of five feet, or six, that ever yet operated in 
achieving a noble action, or performing a virtuous one ; 
nor have those maxims which have instructed, or those ima- 
ginations, which have delighted mankind, proceeded from 
how much a man could measure, in his stockings, the length 
of his back, or the thickness of his body. Those are con- 
siderations for your tailor ; and give me leave to assure the 
worthy gentleman, that though he could overlook me by a 
full head and a half, it would not give him the advantage 
of one poor eighth of an inch, with respect to height or 
breadth of soul or intellect, the proper, the real, the only 
measure of a man. With regard to my amendment, Mr. 
Chairman, I am not anxious to press it. That I did not 
propose it from any disrespectful feeling towards you, I 
entreat you to believe. I withdraw it, and I beg you will 
excuse the interruption it has occasioned. 

Chairman. — I cannot allow the last speaker to with- 
draw his amendment, without expressing my conviction, 
that in proposing it, he was actuated solely by the desire 
of giving the question a greater degree of precision. I own 
it has been objected to, as not being so definite as it ought 
to be ; and it is probable, that we might have presented it 
in a less objectionable shape. However, I trust that you 
will proceed with the discussion ; at the same time, keep- 
ing in mind, that the greatest talents, and the most brilliant 
achievements, are not sufficient to constitute a great man, 
unless his ends are virtuous and noble. 

Francis Archer. — Mr. Chairman, to you, Sir, I am 
sure I need not apologize for the freedom I have used with 
regard to the gentleman who last addressed you. Believe 
me, Sir, had I not known his great natural talents, had I 



DEBATE. 195 

not admired and valued them, I should not have presumed 
to ruffle him into resentment, or pique him into retort. I 
appeared to slight him, because I knew that he was above 
slight — I questioned his strength, that he might be tempted 
to exert it ; and I rejoice at his triumph, although it has 
been achieved by my own apparent defeat. 

But upon what ground are we to acknowledge that Caesar 
was a great man ? For my part, I am at a loss to account 
for the infatuation of those who call him so ? for his chief 
merit seems to have consisted in his talents as a warrior ; 
and those talents he certainly employed in a cause that can- 
not be defended upon any principle of morality or religion. 
What species of beings are we, that we laud to the skies 
those men whose names live in the recollection of a field of 
carnage, a sacked town, or a stormed citadel ? — -that we 
celebrate, at our convivial meetings, the exploits of him, 
who, in a single day, has more than trebled the ordinary 
havoc of death ? that our wives and daughters weave gar- 
lands for the brow whose sweat has cost the groans of 
widows and of orphans ? — and that our very babes are 
taught to twine the arms of innocence and purity about 
the knees that have been used to wade in blood ? — I say 
what species of beings are we, that we give our praise, our 
admiration, and our love, to that which reason, religion, 
interest, every consideration, should persuade us to con- 
demn — to avoid — to abhor ! 

I do not mean to say, that war ought never to be waged 
— there are at times occasions when it is expedient — neces- 
sary — justifiable ; but who celebrates with songs of triumph 
those commotions of the elements that call the awful 
lightning into action — that hurl the inundating clouds to 
earth- — and send the winds into the deep to rouse its hor- 
rors ? These things are necessary — but we hail them not 
with shouts of exultation — we do not clap our hands as 
they pass by us — we do not throng in crowds to their pro- 
cessions ; we shudder as we behold them ! What species of 
beings are we ? — We turn with disgust from the sight of 
the common executioner, who, in his time, has despatched 
a score or two of victims, and we press to the heels of him 
that, in a single day, has been the executioner of thousands. 



196 DEBATE. 

Let us not call Caesar a great man because he was a great 
warrior ; if we must admire him, let us seek some other 
warrant for our applauses, than what proceeds from the 
groans and writhings of humanity ! 

Let us, then, Sir, first examine his youth — and here we 
are struck with his notable adventure with the pirates. 
These freebooters took him as he was sailing to Rhodes — 
they asked twenty talents for his ransom; and, in derision 
of their moderation, he promised them fifty — the onus of 
which act of liberality was borne by the honest Milesians, 
who raised the money by a voluntary tax — he spent thirty- 
eight days with those pirates — joined in their diversions- 
took his exercises among them — wrote poems and orations, 
which he rehearsed to them 3 and which, indeed, pirates as 
they were, they did not admire — and, in short, lived 
among them with as much security, ease, and honour, as if 
he had been in Rome. And what was the sequel?" — His 
ransom arrives — they keep their compact — set him at 
liberty — he departs — arrives at Miletus — mans some ves- 
sels in the port of that place — returns — attacks these same 
pirates — takes the greater number of them prisoners, and 
crucifies them to a man ! 

Was this a great act in Caesar ? True ! he had promised 
to do so when they showed no great relish for the songs 
and speeches which he had written among them — but should 
he have kept his promise ? True ! they were a banditti, — 
they had deprived him of his liberty ; — but he had eaten 
at their board — he had partaken of their diversions —he 
had slept among them in sacred security— he had railed at 
them without retort — threatened them, and only excited 
delight at his freedoms ; — should he, Mr, Chairman, have 
crucified them ? crucified them to a man ? — was there not 
one, at least, he might have spared ? — one bluff face, whose 
humour and confidence had pleased him above the rest ? — 
one hand, whose blunt officiousness he more particularly 
remembered ? Oh ! Mr. Chairman, do we admire the at- 
tachment which a wild beast displays towards its attentive 
keeper — do we applaud that sacred and general principle 
of nature, which allows kindness to- obliterate the sense of 
injury— and shall we give our sanction, praise, and admi- 
ration to this exploit of Caesar's ? 



DEBATE. 197 

What do we find hini next about ? — He produces the 
images of Marius! — that man, who, as my worthy friend 
has said, returned the salutations of his fellow-citizens with 
the blows of his assassins ; and marched to the Capitol 
amidst the groans of his butchered countrymen, expiring 
on each side of him — this was not following the steps of 
Marius — it was justifying them — it was expatiating upon 
them, in the language of veneration and triumph ! it was 
inviting to the standard of his ambition every recreant that 
would sell the vigour of his arm to any cause, no matter how 
bloody— how unnatural — how immoral — how sacrilegious ! 

I shall not comment upon the circumstance of his having 
been two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in debt, before 
he obtained any public office ; neither shalr I dwell upon 
his exhibition of three hundred and twenty pair of gladia- 
tors — his diversions in the theatre — his processions and 
entertainments : in which, as Plutarch says, he far out- 
shone the most ambitious that had gone before him ; and 
by which he courted the favour of the vile, the witless, the 
sensual, and the venal— I shall not expatiate upon the share 
he had in Catiline's conspiracy — I shall not track him in 
his military career, by pointing out the ruin which he left 
behind him at every step — I shall simply answer those 
gentlemen, who argue that Caesar usurped the supreme 
power for the public good, by examining the characters of 
the men who abetted him. 

Were your country, Sir, in a state of anarchy — were it 
distracted by the struggles of rival parties, drawn out every 
now and then, in arms against one another — and were you 
Sir, to attempt a reformation of manners, what qualifica- 
tions would you require in the men whom you would asso- 
ciate with you, in such an undertaking ? What would 
content you ? — Talent ? — No ! Enterprise ? — No ! Cour- 
age?— No! Reputation ?— No ! Virtue?— No? The 
men whom you would select, should possess, not one, but 
all of these — nor yet should that content you. They must 
be proved men — tested men — men, that had, again and 
again, passed through the ordeal of human temptation — 
without a scar— without a blemish — without a speck ! You 
would not select the public firebrand — you would not seek 



198 DEBATE. 

your seconds in the tavern or in the brothel — you would 
not enquire out the man who was oppressed with debts, 
contracted by licentiousness, debauchery, every species of 
profligacy 1 Who, Sir, I ask, were Caesar's seconds in his 
undertaking? Crebonius Curio, one of the most vicious 
and debauched young men in Rome — a creature of Pom- 
pey's, bought off by the illustrious Caesar ! Marcus Anto- 
nius, a creature of that creature's — a young man so ad- 
dicted to every kind of dissipation, that he had been driven 
from the paternal roof — the friend and coadjutor of that 
Clodius, who violated the mysteries of the Bona Dea — and 
drove into exile the man that had been called the father of 
his country ! Paulus iEmilius — a patrician — a consul — a 
friend of Pomp,ey*s — bought off by the great Caesar with a 
bribe of fifteen hundred talents ! Such, Sir, were the 
abetters of Caesar. What, then — was Caesar's object ? Do 
we select extortioners to enforce the laws of equity ? — Do 
we make choice of profligates to guard the morals of society ? 
— Do we depute atheists to preside over the rights of reli- 
gion ? — What, I say, was Caesar's object? I will not press 
the answer — I need not press the answer — the premises of 
my argument render it unnecessary. The achievement 
of great object^ does not belong to the vile — or of virtuous 
ones to the vicious — or of religious ones to the profane. 
Caesar did not. associate such characters with him for the 
good of his country— his object was the gratification of his 
own ambition — the attainment of supreme power ; no mat- 
ter by what means accomplished — no matter by what conse- 
quences attended. He aspired to be the highest — above 
the people ! —above the authorities! — above the laws 1 — ■ 
above his country — and in that seat of eminence he was 
content to sit, though, from the centre to the far horizon of 
his power, his eyes could contemplate nothing but the ruin 
and desolation by which ho had reached to it ! 

liOBERT Vance. — Mr. Chairman, I solicit your atten- 
tion. * 

The gentleman says, we ought not to rejoice at the tri- 
umphs of the warrior ! Is this position, Sir, to be received 
without the least restriction ? Let us detect the sophistry 
of those who support the negative of the question. 



DEBATE. 199 

A caitiff enters your house at the dead hour of the night, 
prepared for robbery, and grasping the instrument of mur- 
der ! You hear the tread of unknown feet — you rise, come 
upon the intruder, resist him, and lay him prostrate ! Shall 
your wife shudder when you approach to tell her she is 
safe ? Shall your children shrink from you, when you 
say you have averted the danger that threatened their 
innocent sleep ? Why should they not? I'll tell you, Sir, 
—because you have followed the dictates of reason, of 
affection, of nature, and of God. Had you not been 
alarmed — notwithstanding this imminent danger, had you 
risen in safety, and had you found the ruffian dead at your 
chamber-door, without a mark of violence upon him — his 
ready weapon lying by his hand — had you then called 
your family to behold the spectacle, what would they all 
have done ? Would not some have fallen upon their knees ? 
— would not others have stood with uplift hands ? — would 
not all have been transfixed with gratitude — with adoration 
— that their Almighty guard had stretched his arm between 
them and destruction, and marked a limit which the mur- 
derer should not pass, without the penalty of death ? And 
is the question changed, because you are the instrument of 
God ? It would be preposterous to say so. If, then, your 
wife, your children, and family, shall bless the hand that 
has been the means of their preservation — if they shall 
weep for gratitude, and press to you on every side, rejoic- 
ing in the protection of your arm — shall he not hear the 
voice of gratulation, whose skill and valor have saved the 
lives of thousands — have defended cities of matrons and 
children, not from unexpected destruction, but from de- 
struction again and again anticipated — approaching before 
their eyes, and at every step acquiring additional horror ! 
Sir, there are warriors whose victories should be celebrated 
with shouts and songs — for whose brows our wives and 
daughters should weave garlands, and whose knees our 
infants should embrace — such warriors as guard the bound- 
aries of their native land ! Though they have waded 
through blood, fair is their aspect, Keligion is the motto of 
their standard, and mercy glances from their sword. And 
had not Csesar been such a warrior ? Who were the 



200 DEBATE. 

enemies over whom he triumphed, before his rupture with 
Pompey ? Barbarians that lived by predatory warfare ! — ■ 
The people whose ancestors had once sacked Rome ! — who 
were the restless invaders of the Eoman territory, and, in 
one of their incursions, annihilated a consular army of a 
hundred and twenty thousand men ! — a nation of robbers ! 
— ignorant of the laws of arms — regardless of leagues and 
treaties — the bloodhounds of havoc — that destroyed for 
the mere gust of destroying ! 

But a very curious attack has been made upon the 
character of Caesar, namely, that he put a few pirates to 
death ! I question if the worthy gentleman understands 
what a pirate of those times signified. Probably, he con- 
ceives him to have been a rough, honest, free, merry kind 
of fellow, that loved a roving life, and indulged himself, 
only now and then, in a little harmless plunder ! He will 
not expect to be told, that he was a man, enrolled in a 
formidable band — possessing, at times, a fleet of a thou- 
sand galleys — making frequent descents upon the Italian 
coasts — plundering villas — temples — and even towns ! — 
carrying off consuls and their lictors ! — tearing virgins 
from the arms of their aged parents ! — murdering, in cold 
blood, the prisoners whom they had taken, particularly 
Romans — and spreading such terror over the seas, that no 
merchant-vessel dared to put out of port, and large districts 
of the empire were threatened with famine ! Surely the 
gentleman must be ignorant of these facts ; otherwise, he 
would not have chosen so untenable a position for attack. 
As to Caesar's forgetting that the pirate had been his host, 
it might indeed have been some ground for animadversion 
had he ever remembered that he was so. Some gentlemen, 
truly, may be so much in love with hospitality, as to admire 
it, though it should be forced upon them with handcuffs 
and fetters ; and may have so curious a taste for visiting, 
as never to go abroad, except upon the requisition of a 
bailiff; or value an entertainment unless the host turns the 
key upon them, and feasts them in a dungeon with walls a 
yard thick, and windows double-barred. But, as such 
fancies cannot be called common, Caesar, I think, may 
escape without censure for not having indulged in them. 



DEBATE. 201 

And Caesar is to be condemned, because lie produced the 
images of Marios, and revived his memory and honours ! 
Now, Sir, I conceive, a weaker ground of accusation could 
not have been selected — for, the mere circumstance of 
Marius's having been related to Caesar by marriage, pre- 
sents a very natural excuse for such a proceeding — parti- 
cularly as it took place upon the death of Caesar's aunt, 
who was the wife of Marius. I fear the worthy gentleman 
does not follow Bacon's recommendation, and chew and 
digest the nutritious food which historical reading presents 
to the mind ; otherwise, he must have perceived that Cae- 
sar's conduct, on this occasion, not only admitted of 
excuse, but even challenged commendation. Let him return 
to the page which he has examined, I fear, too superficially, 
and he will find, that, up to that time, several of Sylla's 
partisans — partisans in his murders — remained in Rome — 
lived there, in peace, in safety — perhaps in power ; he will 
find the general assertion, that Caesar's conduct in having 
revived the memory of Marius, incensed the nobility ; and 
the general assertion, that Catulus accused him before the 
senate — this Catulus had been the distinguished friend of 
Sylla ; had been raised by Sylla to the consulship ; and, 
at Sylla's death, had preserved his remains from the de- 
served dishonour of an ignominious burial, had procured 
him the most magnificent funeral that had ever been seen 
in Rome, and caused the vestals and pontifiees to sing 
hymns, in praise of the man, who, as it has been justly 
said, converted Rome into a shambles with his butcheries ! 
— he will find that Caesar answered the invectives of Ca- 
tulus, and was acquitted with high applauses; and, that 
he, thereupon, attacked the remaining partisans of Sylla, 
brought them to trial, and having convicted such as had 
imbrued their hands in the blood of their fellow-citizens, 
caused them to be condemned to death, or to perpetual 
banishment ! 

Let us, Sir, do justice to the dead, though their interests 
be parted from ours, by the lapse of a hundred generations 
— and, as this noble act of Caesar's followed the revival 
of his uncle's honours, let us believe that he revived his 
uncle's honours, for the purpose of performing this noble 

s 



202 DEBATE. 

act— that the memory of Sylla's enemy, being opposed to 
the memory of Sylla, might deprive it of that power which 
gave impunity to murder, and guarded sacrilege from ven- 
geance. 

As to the assertion, that Caesar's aims may be ascertained 
by examining the character of those whom he associated 
with him, it must go for nothing. The gentleman must 
recollect that those very men had been the abetters of 
Pompey — had been employed by Pompey — ay ! and with 
the sanction of the senate — in carrying on the measures 
which he adopted against Caesar. 

Our cause may rest upon one single fact — Rome was 
happy, prosperous, and honoured under Caesar's govern- 
ment; and I shall have the hardihood to assert, that he, 
whose rule secures the happiness, prosperity, and glory of 
a nation, deserves to rule it. 

William M'Cleery. — Sir, if you are not indebted to 
the gentleman that has just addressed you, I am sure the 
fault is not his. He has made you a present of a wife, 
and a fine thriving family, with all the happy et ceteras. 
Allow me, Sir, to pay my compliments to you in your new 
character ; allow me to congratulate you upon your having 
escaped the bachelor's tax ; allow me to give you joy of a 
title, which becomes your grave deportment, which you 
wear with a peculiar grace ; and which, I fervently trust, 
you will wear long ! Yet let me hope, Mr. Chairman, 
that you will sometimes remember your late, affectionate 
fraternity, now disconsolate at the loss they have sustained. 
Let me presume that you will sometimes steal yourself 
away from the lullaby of the nurse, and the prattling of 
the children, to visit your old companions. Your conde- 
scension will not be unprofitable; from the contemplation 
of our desolate state, you will turn, with a livelier zest, 
to your own little domestic circle ; your heart will feel the 
prouder by the contrast ; and, in the fulness of your joy, 
you will sigh an involuntary blessing upon the day that 
first introduced you to the acquaintance of the worthy 
gentleman ! 

You know, Mr. Chairman, I never prided myself upon 
my talents for speaking. You must, therefore, attribute 



DEBATE. 203 

my present presumption to the surprise which I feel at 
learning that you managed your courtship so cunningly, 
as to brine; it to a conclusion without the knowledge of the 
mistress you wooed, the parson that performed the cere- 
mony, and even without your own privacy! 

H wever, Sir, as I have risen, I .-hall venture an obser- 
vation or two upon the question before me. And here, 
Mr. Chairman, I feel myself tolerably bold, for I have a 
good cause, and that is more than half the battle Sir, it 
is the whole of the battle — it is the victory itself — for, 
though Truth should be repulsed a hundred times, she will 
be triumphant at last. Defeated again and again, she 
returns unwearied, whole, and confident, t.o the charge — 
because she is immortal ! 

" As easily may you the intrench ant air 
With your keen sword impress, as make her bleed." 

But this kind of style does not belong to me, Mr. Chair- 
man. Unfortunately, I am a fellow so given to jesting, 
that I am always thought to be most in jest when I appear 
to be serious ; therefore, Sir, I must talk to you in my 
own way — catching at the ideas, just as they present them- 
selves, and giving them to you without examination, 
or order, or system, or anything else that bespeaks a man 
of a sedate habit of thinking — confiding everything, as I 
said before, to the goodness of my cause. 

And, first of all, Sir, I have not the least idea of calling 
a man great, because he has been a great conqueror ! I do 
not like what are called your great conquerors ! your gen- 
tlemen that have slain their tens of thousands, and fought 
more battles than they are years old ! I care not in what 
cause they may have been engaged : that is the last con- 
sideration ; for the very best cause may be entrusted to 
the very worst man — that is, with respect to morals, prin- 
ciples, and so forth. It is not virtue that is requisite to 
form such characters ; it is- the contempt of death— enter- 
prise^ — cunning - skill — resolution — and these may be found 
in a man who does not possess one single recommendation 
besides. How many a renowned general has turned hjs 
arms against the very cause, in whose defence he first took 
them up, as Caesar did — Caesar, who was commissioned by 



204 DEBATE. 

his country to subdue the Gauls, and then commissioned 
himself to subdue his country ? I wonder that any man, 
who has a regard for common sense, or plain honesty, can 
so far forget himself as to justify Caesar's conduct in this 
particular. I shall state a very simple case to you, Mr. 
Chairman. You have a very large estate ; yon employ a 
couple of stewards to assist you in the management of it; 
and you send one of them to reside in the most distant part 
of it. Well, Sir, this steward is. a fellow of address ; he 
manages his little government very skilfully; keeps your 
tenants in due subjection, and your servants in admirable 
order ; at the same time taking care to secure himself in 
their good graces by indulgences, and gifts, and flatteries 
and every effective means of engaging esteem. Well, Sir, 
in process of time, you determine to dismiss this steward ; 
but you retain the other. You recall him that he may 
give an account of himself, and receive his discharge. 
Does he obey you ? No : he does not stir a step ! He 
sets his arms a-kimbo, and thus accosts your messenger — 
" Mr. Jack — or Thomas — or William — or Walter — present 
my duty to my master, and say, that when steward such- 
a-one receives his discharge, I'll accept mine. I should 
like to see your face, Mr. Chairman, upon your receiving 
his message. I fear it would require something more than 
the caresses of your wife, and the prattling of your infant 
family, to preserve it in its natural smoothness. What 
would you do with the rascal ? I need not follow the sup- 
position farther. You would do what you could. You 
would have him fined — imprisoned — whipped — put in the 
pillory — hanged ; and yet, Sir, such a man — though act- 
ing upon a larger scale — was the immortal Csesar. It 
makes one sick to hear the cause of such a fellow advo- 
cated ! And let me recall to the recollection of these gen- 
tlemen the truth, that greatness cannot consist in anything 
that is at the disposal of chance* or rather, that exists by 
chance. Had not fortune favoured Caasar in his first bat- 
tles, he would have been recalled, perhaps brought to 
trial and banished; and then he would have been little 
Csesar. 

And now, Sir, in the name of common sense, what 



DEBATE. 205 

mighty acts did Caesar perform, when he became the mas- 
ter of his country ? We are told that the servile senate 
created him reformer of manners — a fine reformer of man- 
ners, whose own manners stood so much in need of reform- 
ing ! Sir, they should have rather made him inspector of 
markets, for it was in that capacity he shone the in- >st con- 
spicuously. It is said, he limited the expense of feasts, and 
that his officers used to enter the houses of the citizens, 
and snatch from off their tables any meats that were served 
up, contrary to his prohibition ! I should like to see a 
constable enter my parlour at dinner-time, and hand away 
a dish just as it had been placed upon the table ! I'd cut 
his fingers off with the carving-knife ! But the best of it 
is, his restrictions affected certain orders only. Men of 
rank might do as they pleased. They might have their 
litters, and their embroidered robes, and their jewels — ay ! 
and, I dare say, their dishes without limit of number, or 
of quality, or of variety. Give me no great Caesar for the 
governor of my country. Give me such government as 
leaves the management of a man's table to himself. Give 
me such cities as have markets without informers — where 
a cook may ride in a carriage as fine as his own gilt and 
figured pastry, and a pin-maker may set you down to as 
many different dishes as there are minikins in a row! 

In fine, Mr. Chairman, my opinion of Caesar is this — 
He was a very fine fighter — a very bad patriot — a very 
selfish master — and a very great rogue ! 

Robert Templeton. — Sir, if my worthy friend has pre- 
sented you with a wife and family, the last speaker is not 
behind-hand with him, for he has given you a large estate 
to maintain them — an estate so large as to require two 
stewards to manage it ! The gentleman has made an af- 
fecting appeal to your feelings, in favour of your old com- 
panions, the bachelors of your acquaintance ; but, I trust, 
his oratory will not be so successful as to induce you to 
pay the tax for them, while this assembly presents so many 
fair and irresistible arguments in favour of the marriage 
state. 

As to the gentleman's eloquence, in opposition to Caesar's 
greatness, he himself tells you what degree of importance 



206 DEBATE. 

you are to attach to his opinions, for, he very ingenuously 
says, you are not to exnect anything serious from him, but 
that you must accept of undigested ideas, an I rash con- 
clusions, in the place of sober reflection and logical rea- 
soning : his arguments, therefore, pass for nothing, and do 
not add to the strength of his cause, or subtract from that 
of ours. 

In one instance, however, I shall comment upon what 
he has said, because a man should not be frivolous even in 
his jesting. I allude to his wit respecting the restraint 
that Caesar laid upon luxury. Surely the gentleman can- 
not have been so great a victim to his mirth as to have 
laughed away the fruit of his academic labours. Surely 
he cannot have forgotten that Caesar had proud authority 
for the policy he pursued in the respect alluded to. Surely 
he remembers a few of the laws of Lycurgus, particularly 
that which prescribed the diet of the Spartans, and enjoined 
all ranks to eat without distinction in one common hall, 
where the simplest repast was provided. Surely I need 
not remind him, that the heroes of Greece fared upon 
black broth, and drew their glory no less from th> j mode- 
ration of their appetite than from the excess of their cou- 
rage and patriotism. 

The gentleman says, it makes him sick to hear the cause 
of such a man as Caesar advocated ! I shall prescribe for 
his sickness. Let him take a dose of common sense, and 
use a little mental exercise — that will remove his sickness. 
I am sure it makes me sick to hear the arguments of Cae- 
sar's opponents. 

Sir, he was a man of stupendous loftiness of mind — a 
man above all influence of fortune — himself, where other 
men would have been — nothing 1 Observe him when he 
is surprised by the NerviL His soldiers are employed in 
pitching their camp. The ferocious enemy sallies from his 
concealment, puts the Roman cavaln to the rout, and falls 
upon the foot. Everything is alarm, confusion, and dis- 
order. Every one is doubtful what course to take — every 
one but Caesar ! He causes the banner to be erected, the 
charge to be sounded, the soldiers at a distance recalled — 
all in a moment ! He runs from place to place — his whole 



DEBATE. 207 

frame is in action — his words — his looks — -his motions — his 
gesture?, exhort his men to remember their former valour ! 
He draws them up, and causes the signal to be given — all 
in a moment ! The contest is doubtful and dreadful. Two 
of his legions are entirely surrounded. He seizes a buckler 
from one of the private men — puts himself at the head of 
his broken troops — darts into the thick of the battle — res- 
cues his legions, and overthrows his enemy ! 

But, if you would contemplate Caesar in a situation 
where he is peculiarly himself, observe him attempting 
to cross the sea in a fishing-bark. A storm arises — the 
waves and winds oppose his jourse — the rowers, in despair, 
desist from their labour ! Caesar, from the time he had en- 
tered the boat, had sat in silence habited in the disguise of 
a slave, unknown to the sailors or the pilot. Like a genius 
who could command the elements, he stands before the mas- 
ter of the vessel in his proper shape, and cries, " Go on 
boldly, my friend, and fear nothing ! Thou earnest 
Caesar and his fortune along with thee ! " 

Really, Sir, I cannot command my patience, when I hear 
those gentlemen indulge themselves in invectives against a 
man, the twentieth part of whose excellence divided amongst 
the whole of them, would make them heroes. 

I shall certainly vote for the affirmative of the question. 

William Simms. — Sir, if my worthy friend was sick, 
I hope he is now in a fair way of recovery. The gentle- 
man has considered his case, and prescribed for him ; and 
he certainly could not have fallen into better hands. 

You must confess, Mr. Chairman, you preside over an 
assembly whose members entertain a very respectful sense 
of your merits. One has made you the father of a happy 
family — another has bestowed on you a handsome estate. 
Allow me, Sir, to recommend a physician to you — one who 
will be a faithful guardian of your health— who will watch, 
with skilful eye, the delicate complexion of your wife, and 
regulate with gentle and innocent doses, your children's 
habit of body. What, Sir, is the blessing of a wife, of child- 
ren, of fortune, if sickness spreads languor through our 
nerves, or fever through our veins ? Believe me, Sir, the 
gentleman's merit does not consist in his diploma only : it 



208 DEBATE. 

has its foundation in knowledge, in science, and experience. 
Nor is his ability confined to his mere professional walk : 
he is, as you may perceive from the speech he has just 
made you, a philosopher and a moralist. Unlike Macbeth's 
physician, he — 

" Can minister to a mind diseased, 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 
Raze out the written troubles of the brain, 
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, 
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff 
That weighs upon the heart." 

I regret, however, Mr. Chairman, that notwithstanding 
my eulogium, I must dissent from him with regard to his 
admiration of Caesar — I cannot, I confess, behold those 
incidents he just named, in Caesar's life, in the same light 
that he does. When Caesar was surprised by the Nervii, 
he had a great cause at stake, and his conduct was the 
natural result of that consideration. That consideration 
made him collected and gave him coolness to employ the 
readiest means of extricating himself from the danger that 
threatened him. Besides, he was no raw commander ; he 
had subdued the Helvetians, the Germans, and the Bel- 
gians ; nor was his rescuing the two legions that were sur- 
rounded by the enemy so wonderful an exploit. He was 
joined, at that critical moment, by the force he had "left to 
guard his baggage : nor was his success more the conse- 
quence of his courage in leading his men into the thickest 
of the fight, than the enthusiasm of his soldiers who fol- 
lowed their general, and whose dearest honour was, then, 
most particularly concerned in his safety. 

Caesar, an ambitious general attempted to cross the sea 
in a fishing-bark. A lover swam across the Hellespont. 
Caesar's fortunes and life were at stake. He had only a 
handful of men with him, and Antony was loitering, as he 
supposed near Brundusium. Leander had his mistress at 
stake. I will not, Mr. Chairman, trespass any longer on 
your patience. I am sure you will agree with me, that 
great exploits must have noble ends — and then, indeed, 
they make the executor great, 



DEBATE. 209 

"Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, 
Is but the more a fool — the more a knave. 
Who noble ends by noble means obtains, 
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains — 
Like good Aurelius, let him sigh, or bleed 
Like Socrates— that, man is great indeed ! " 

Henry Herbert. — Mr. Chairman, a gentleman has 
said, that the man whose rule secures the happiness, pros- 
perity, and glory of a nation, deserves to rule it. With 
equal confidence I assert, that the man who obtains the rule 
of his country by violating its laws — how much soever he 
may contribute to make it happy, prosperous, and great — 
does not deserve to rule it. He sets a bad example — an 
example the more pernicious, as his virtues seem to palliate 
the atrocity of his usurpation. He leaves it in the power 
of any wretch who may possess his ambition, without his 
excellence, to quote his name, and use it as an authority 
for the commission of similar crime. 

No gentleman has yet presumed to say that Caesar's con- 
duct was sanctioned by the laws of Rome — those laws that 
guarded more cautiously against the approaches to tyranny 
than against the invasion of a foreign enemy — those laws 
which justified any private man in putting to death the 
person whom he could afterwards prove to have been guilty 
of meditating usurpation. Caesar, then, did not deserve to 
rule his country, for he violated its laws. A good man 
respects the laws of his country ; Caesar was not in this 
view a good man — Caesar was not in this view a great man ; 
for goodness is an essential part of greatness. 

Let us now examine how far he deserved to rule his 
country, because, as it has been said, be secured its hap- 
piness, prosperity, and greatness. Sir, I do not believe that 
he accomplished any such object. To dispose of all offices 
and honours just as his own interest, or fancy, directed 
his choice of the candidates ; to create new offices for the 
gratification of his favourites and creatures, making the pub- 
lic property the recompense of public delinquency ; to de- 
grade the venerable senate, by introducing into it persons 
whose only claim to that dignity was their servile devotion 
to his interests— common soldiers, the sons of freedmen, 



210 DEBATE. 

foreigners, and so forth; — I say, Sir, to adopt such meas- 
ures as these had not a tenlency to secure the happiness 
or prosperity ot his country. But upon what ground does 
the gentleman assert that Caesar secured the greatness of 
his country ? Was it by extending the fame of its arms ? 
There was another kind of fame, which the Roman people 
valued more than their fame of arms — the fame of their 
liberty. There was another kind of greatness, dearer to 
their pride than all the wealth of honour, that could result 
from foreign victory — that kind of greatness which gloried 
not in the establishing, but in the destroying of tyranny ; 
which drove a Tarquin from the throne, and cast an Appius 
into prison ; which called their proudest heroes from the 
heads of armies and the rule of conquered nations, into the 
equal ranks of private citizens. 

A gentleman, speaking of Caesar's benevolent disposition, 
and of the reluctance with which he entered into the civil 
war, observes, " How long did he pause upon the brink of 
the Rubicon !" How came he to the brink of that river ? 
How dared he cross it ? Shall private men respect the 
boundaries of private property, and shall a man pay no re- 
spect to the boundaries of his country's rights ? How dared 
he cross that river ? Oh ! but he paused upon the brink ! 
He should have perished on the brink ere he had crossed it ! 
Why did he pause? Why does a man's heart palpitate 
when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed ? 
Why does the very murderer, his victim sleeping before 
him, and his glaring eye taking the measure of the blow, 
strike wide of the mortal part ? Because of conscience ! 
' Twas that made Caesar pause on the brink of the Rubi- 
con. Compassion ! What compassion ? The compassion 
of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder as his weapon 
begins to cut! Caesar paused upon the brink of the Ru- 
bicon ! What was the Rubicon ? The boundary of Cae- 
sar's province. From what did it separate his province ? 
From his country. Was that country a desert ? No : it 
was cultivated and fertile, rich and populous. Its sons 
were men of genius, spirit, and generosity. Its daughters 
were lovely, susceptible, and chaste. Friendship was its in- 
habitant — Love was its inhabitant — domestic affection was 



DEBATE. 211 

its inhabitant — Liberty was its inhabitant — all bounded 
by the stream of the Rubicon ! What was Caesar, that 
stood upon the brink of that stream ? A traitor, bringing 
war and pestilence into the heart of that country. No 
wonder that he paused. No wonder if, his imagination 
wrought upon by his conscience, he had beheld blood in- 
stead of water, and heard groans instead of murmurs. No 
wonder if some gorgon horror had turned him into stone 
upon the spot ! But, no ! — he cried, " The die is cast !" 
He plunged— he crossed — and Rome was free no more ? 

Agiin — it has been observed, " How often did he at- 
tempt a reconciliation with Pompey, and offer terms of 
accommodation ! " Would gentleman pass tricks upon us 
for honest actions? Examine the fact. Caesar keeps 
his army on foot because Pompey does so. What entitles 
either of them to keep his army on foot? The commission 
of his country. By that authority they levied their 
armies — by that authority they should disband them. 
Had Caesar that authority to keep, his army on foot ? No. 
Had Pompey ? Yes. What right, then, had Caesar to 
keep his army on foot because Pompey did so ? His 
army ! It was the army of his country — enrolled by the 
orders of his country — maintained by the treasure of his 
country — fighting under the banners of his country — 
seduced by his flatteries, his calumnies, and his bribes, to 
espouse the fortunes of a traitor ! Sir, he never sincerely 
sought an accommodation. Had he wished to accomplish 
such an object, he would have adopted such measures as 
were likely to obtain it. He would have obeyed the order 
of the senate, disbanded his troops, laid down his command, 
and appeared in Rome a private citizen. Such conduct 
would have procured him more dignity, more fame, more 
glory, than a thousand sceptres ; he would not have come 
to parley with the trumpet and the standard, the spear and 
the buckler ; he would have proved himself to have been 
great in virtue. 

Upon the same principle, his clemency must go for 
nothing — clemency ! To attribute clemency to a man is 
to imply that he has a right to be severe — a right to punish. 
Caesar had no right to punish. His clemency ! It was 



212 DEBATE. 

the clemency of an outlaw — a pirate — a robber — who 
strips his prey, but then abstains from slaying him ! 

You were also told, that he paid the most scrupulous 
respect to the laws. He paid the most scrupulous respect 
to the laws ! — he set his foot upon ; and, in that prostrate 
condition, mocked them with respect ! 

But, if you would form a just estimate of Caesar's aims, 
look to his triumphs after the surrender of Utica — Utica, 
more honoured in being the grave of Cato, than Rome in 
having been the cradle of Caesar. 

You will read, Sir, that Caesar triumphed four times. 
First, for his victory over the Gauls ; secondly, over Egypt ; 
thirdly, over Pharnaces ; lastly over Juba, the friend of 
Cato. His first, second, and third triumphs were, we are 
told, magnificent. Before him marched the princes and 
noble foreigners of the countries he had conquered ; his 
soldiers, crowned with laurels, followed him ; and the 
whole city attended with acclamations. This was well — " 
the conqueror should be honoured. His fourth triumph 
approaches — as magnificent as the former ones. It does 
not want its royal captive, its soldiers crowned with laurels, 
or its flushed conqueror to grace it ; nor is it less honoured 
by the multitude of its spectators — but they send up no 
shout of exultation ; they heave loud sighs, their cheeks 
are frequently wiped; their eyes are fixed upon one object, 
that engrosses all their senses — their thoughts — their affec- 
tions. It is the statue of Cato, carried before the victor's 
chariot ! It represents him rending open His wound, and 
tearing out his bowels, as he did in Utica, when Roman 
liberty was no more ! Now ask if Caesar's aim was the 
welfare of his country. Now doubt if he was a man 
governed by a selfish ambition. Now question whether he 
usurped for the mere sake of usurping ? He is not con- 
tent to triumph over the Gauls, the Egyptians, and Phar- 
naces : he must triumph over his own countrymen ! He 
is not content to cause the statue of Scipio and Petreius to 
be carried before him : he must be graced by that of Cato ! 
He is not content with the simple effigy of Cato ; he must 
exhibit that of his suicide ! He is not satisfied to insult 
the Romans with triumphing over the death of liberty ) 



DEBATE. 213 

they must gaze upon the representation of her expiring 
agonies, and mark the writhings of her last — fatal struggle ! 
Mr. Chairman, I confidently anticipate the triumph of 
our cause. 

Francis Ward. — Sir, with very great reluctance I 
present myself to your notice at this late hour. We have 
proved that your patience is abundant — we cannot presume 
that it is inexhaustible. I shall exercise it for only a few 
moments. Were our cause to be judged by the approba- 
tion which our opponents have received, it would appear to 
be lost. But that is far from being the case, Mr. Chair- 
man. The approbation they receive is unaccompanied by 
conviction. It is a tribute, and a merited' one, to their 
eloquence, and has not any reference to the justice of the 
part they take. Our cause is not lost — is not in danger — 
does not apprehend danger. We are as strong as ever, as 
able for the contest, and as confident of victory. We fight 
under the banners of Caesar ; and Caesar never met an 
open enemy without subduing him. 

We grant that Caesar was a usurper ; but we insist that 
the circumstances of the times justified his usurpation. 
We insist that he became a usurper for the good of his 
country — for the salvation of the republic — for the preser- 
vation of its very existence. What must have been the 
state of Roman liberty, when such men as Marius and 
Sylla could become usurpers ? Monsters, against whose 
domination nature and religion exclaimed ! 

Gentlemen talk very prettily about the criminality of 
usurpation. They know it is a popular theme. All men 
are tenacious of their property ; and the gentlemen think 
that, if they can carry the feelings of their auditors along 
with them in this respect, they may be certain of success 
in every other. We have not any objection to their 
flattering themselves with such fancies ; but the cause of 
justice shall not be sacrified to their gratification. Surely 
those gentlemen must be ignorant of the state of the republic 
in those times ; surely they have never heard or read that 
massacre was the common attendant of public elections ; 
that the candidates brought their money, openly, to the 
place of election, and distributed it among the heads of the 



214 DEBATE. 

different factions ; that those factions employed force and 
violence in favour of the persons who paid them ; and that 
scarce any office was disposed of without being disputed 
sword in hand, and without costing the lives of many 
citizens. 

A gentleman very justly said, that the love of country 
is the first, the second, and the last principle of a virtuous 
mind. Now, Sir, it appears that the .Roman people sold 
thi ir country — its offices — its honours — its liberty ; sold 
them to the highest bidder, as they would sell their wares, 
a sheep, or the quarter of an ox ; and that, after they had 
struck the bargain, they threw themselves into it, and 
fought manfully for the purchaser ! Cicero and Cato lived 
in these times — Cicero, that saved Eome from the conspi- 
racy of Catiline — Cato, who would not survive the liberty 
of his country. The latter attempted to stop the progress 
of the corruption ; but his efforts were fruitless. He could 
neither restrain its progress nor mitigate its virulence. 
Thus, Sir, the independence of the republic was virtually 
lost before Caesar became a usurper ; and therefore, to 
say that Caesar destroyed the independence or liberty of 
his country, is to assert that he destroyed a nonentity. 

It was happily remarked, that the power of interfering 
with the. tribunes was fatal to the Koman people. Yes, 
Sir, it was fatal. The tribunes ought to have been inde- 
pendent of the people, from the moment of their entering 
on their office to that of their laying it down. You were 
told the people had a right to the direction of their own 
affairs. Yes, Sir, they had a right. We do not dispute 
that. But it was a right by the abandonment of which 
they would have* been gainers. It was a fatal right, by 
grasping which they lost everything. It was an inconsist- 
ent right, for they stood as much in need of being pro- 
tected from themselves as of being protected from the 
nobility. Why does any man put his affairs into the hands 
of another, but because he cannot manage them so well 
himself? If he cannot manage them so well himself, why 
should he interfere with the person to whose conduct he 
intrusts them? Because he has a right. I know he 
has • but it is an unfortunate right, for it leaves it in his 



DEBATE. 215 

power to ruin himself, in spite of good counsel and friend- 
ship. 

Gentlemen talk of what are called the people, as if they 
were the most enlightened part of the community ! Are 
they the guardians of learning, or of the arts, or of the 
sciences ? Do we select counsellors from them, or judges, 
or legislators ? Do we inquire among them for rhetoricians, 
logicians, or philosophers ?— or rather do we not consider 
them as little cultivated in mind — little regulated by judg- 
ment — much influenced by prejudice — greatly subject to 
caprice — chiefly governed by passion ? Of course, Sir, I 
speak of what are generally called the people — the crowd, 
the mass of the community. But you ask me for a proof 
of the bad effects that resulted to the Roman people from 
the liberty they possessed of legislating directly for them- 
selves. Look, Sir, to the proceedings of the forum ? What 
they did they undid ; what they erected they threw down ; 
they enacted laws and they repealed them ; they elected 
patriots and they betrayed them ; they humbled tyrants 
and they exalted them ! You will find that the great con- 
verted the undue power which the people possessed, into 
the means of sub; ug ting the people. If they feared a 
popular leader, it was only necessary to spread by their 
emissaries a suspicion of his integrity, or set the.engine of 
corruption to work upon that frailest of all fortifications, 
popular stability ; and thus, Sir, they carried their point, 
humbled their honest adversaries, and laughed in the face 
of the wisest and most salutary laws. 

Mr. Chairman, I think that the times in which Caesar 
lived called for and sanctioned his usurpation. I think 
his object was to extinguish the jealousies of party, to put 
a stop to the miseries that resulted from them, and to 
unite his countrymen. I think the divided state of the 
Roman people exposed them to the danger of a foreign 
yoke, from which they could be preserved only by receiving 
a domestic one. I think that Caesar was a great man ; 
and I conclude my trial of your patience with the reply 
made to Brutus by Statilius, who had once determined to 
die in Utica with Cato, and by Favonius, an esteemed 
philosopher of those times. Those men were sounded by 



216 DEBATE. 

Brutus, after he had entered into the conspiracy for mur- 
dering Caesar. The former said, he " would rather 
patiently suffer the oppressions of an arbitrary master, than 
the cruelties and disorders which generally attend civil 
dissensions." The latter declared, that, in his opinion, 
" a civil war was worse than the most unjust tyranny/ ' 

James Gibson. — Mr. Chairman, as the opener of the 
debate, I am entitled to reply to the general arguments 
which have been adduced, with the view of supporting the 
negative of the question ; but it is a privilege of which I 
think it unnecessary to avail myself. I cannot, however, 
refrain from expressing my astonishment that such a 
question should have been proposed ; or that, in any as- 
sembly of rational men, there should exist a diversity of 
opinion upon a subject with respect to which mankind 
have been unanimous in their judgment ; namely, that 
Caesar was a great man. 

Francis Archer. — Mr. Chairman, I beg leave to say 
that the gentleman is somewhat premature in addressing 
you, at this stage of the debate. Several gentlemen, I am 
persuaded, are exceedingly anxious to deliver their senti- 
ments upon the question, decided as the gentleman repre- 
sents it to be by the unanimous consent of mankind. 

Chairman. — If any gentleman who has not yet spoken, 
is anxious to deliver his opinions, I shall be most happy 
to hear them ; though I must confess that, protracted as 
the debate has already been, it appears to me that our more 
eligible course would be to adjourn the question. 

Several Voices. — Adjourn ! adjourn ! 

Chairman. — As it seems to be the general opinion that 
my suggestion should be adopted, I declare the debate 
accordingly adjourned till next vacation. In the mean 
time, I am persuaded that I shall consult the feelings of 
all those who have taken part in the debate, by rendering 
our common thanks to the friends who have listened to it 
with most indulgent patience. 



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